Villainy and Camaderie
by OnlineImhotep
Summary: We follow the everyday life of two self-serving villains, and sometimes mercenaries.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N – a buddy (Claytonimor) and I went to the super powers wikia and decided to roll for characters, we each got two, totally random powers. He got Murderous Possession and Spell Creation, making a magical corpse walker for a character. I rolled for Bone Manipulation and Shattering, making a boney character that shatters things. Some rolls were thrown out to preserve balance, as there are things in there such as Deity Physiology and Unfettered Body, as well as things incredibly difficult to write for such as Intuitive Aptitude… Additionally, we had a fun time doing it, I heartily recommend it to the lot of you. And with that, the double OC/Collaboration party begins.)**

Eric C. Bones and his best friend Throthdar are a truly strange pair. They had met over the Internet and decided to meet in person, a horrible event for many heroes around the globe as it created an evil, yet platonic, partnership that would drown the world with their nefarious deeds. Fortunately for the world, neither are terribly motivated to do that. They probably wouldn't even succeed if they tried, but they always entertained the possibility. As rising figures in the realm of heroes and villains, it's indescribably important to set your sights high or else you'll end up as some poor mook to a more powerful criminal, and easily dispatched by the heroes of the world.

So they tried their level best to be villains of ill repute. You choose your own hours, the money is good, and you can beat your competition to death instead of trying to outmaneuver them or, God forbid, _be better_ at your job. It's an honestly dishonest honest career path. And when the only person you can trust is your best buddy, there's plenty of room for 'friendly' competition and advancement. Blackmail, assassination, bribery; 'honest' people do these things anyway, it's just that villains are better at it and, to be completely honest, it's _expected_ of them. And it's not the last resort, it really cuts down on the time they have to take out of their day to do their jobs.

How they met is an uninteresting story. They both enjoyed Warhammer 40k, and connected over a forum. This lead to their discovery of many shared interests, and as anyone would tell you; shared interests are the bedrock of friendships. Utterly normal and terribly uninteresting. However, who they are and what they can do is much more interesting.

Eric C. Bones, a name looked upon with great fondness for the irony, is the bruiser of the pair. An unflattering approximation of his personality and role, as he is hardly an unintelligent barbarian, but accurate enough. His powers make him one of the best jail breakers in the business, able to walk into and out of jails and prisons with any number of requested convicts, all for a nominal fee. Born with the remarkable ability to shatter whatever he pleases, though it has its limitations, most modern prisons are incapable of keeping him out, or contained for that matter. His other power revolves around the manipulation of his skeletal structure to produce weapons and armor, as this process is generally extraordinarily painful, he avoids using it as much as possible. However, due to superheroes, he is forced to use it on occasion, and he suffers for it each time. In a stroke of irony, and partially due to his taking Latin as an elective course, he has chosen the villain name of Ossum Discutio, because every villain needs a new name. Secret identities and all that.

Throthdar is a demon, which is nice. He's also quite the magical savant, even among demons, focusing most of his creative energies on the subject. Contrary to popular belief about demons, he's a rather nice chap. Polite, intelligent, clean, etc, etc. He's the epitome of being a gentleman. St. Francis de Sales, the Mighty Saint of Gentleman-ness, would look upon him with respect, despite his demonic heritage. He is most often referred to by the name of the person he possesses, due to similar… everything. He literally becomes the person that last killed him. The way that Throthdar describes the ability is that he becomes a small, insidious whisper in the back of the mind of the person that killed his previous host, slowly eroding the will and morals of his newest host, gaining in strength until he consumes the soul and takes over the body. A suit of meat more than anything, a non-entity.

But Throthdar hasn't actually changed his 'flesh suit' in quite a while, as he is boundlessly proud of the one he currently wears. He has consistently avoided many violent altercations just so that he could retain his current one. A world famous man, an entire narrative's worth of an escape story, hiding out in Brazil for a few decades. It's an amazing story, Throthdar might make millions off selling the book, though he'd have to put it in the fiction section, much to his displeasure. People just _would not_, under any circumstances, believe what Throthdar had done 70 odd years ago, or who the person whose flesh he is currently wearing it.

It's Hitler.

Adolf Hitler, allegedly dead Führer of the Third Reich and noted asshole.

Throthdar lives his everyday life walking around as Hitler. It tickles him to no end. He turns heads when he walks down the street on occasion, though most pedestrians are too focused on their smart phones to pay attention to others. Due to his unique borrowing of ole Adolf's corpse, he appears to have not aged a day since 1945. Since the flesh suit is suspended between life and death, it doesn't age or wear, bodily functions have long since ceased. Hitler's body appears to have not aged a day since his death, which is understandable. Throthdar shaved the moustache though, it's a recognizable trademark of Hitler and far too conspicuous, he never would have made it to Brazil if he had kept the moustache.

It might take a few days, hundreds of pages worth of solidly filled story to fully get across the epic that is Throthdar's life, but only a few seconds to get across this particular segment.

When Hitler was in his bunker all those years ago during the siege of Berlin, Throthdar had been a Russian spy. 'Trying' to kill Hitler while the man had been armed with a gun marked the end of a particularly excellent Russian spy, and the end of Adolf Hitler's ownership of his body. That's all there is to that. There's some more about the epic escape across to South America, but that's the boring part. Who likes the boring part? Sure, it may add some backstory to a character, but it's altogether unnecessary.

Presumably, Throthdar has possessed many other people and done quite a few notable things before becoming Hitler. However, that would be prying, and true friends don't pry into the past of their best friend. Especially when subtle hints have been dropped that they don't want to discuss their past for reasons that are left equally unclear.

Together, they made a fantastic, bombastic duo! They aren't particularly famous (yet), they don't have any enemies, or allies, or even many contacts in the criminal underground. This is mostly due to their personalities, as previously discussed. Eric is lazy, he makes no apologies nor does he offer excuses. He finds the idea of actual work loathsome, so he avoids it when he can. And Throthdar, or Hitler, either way is fine, enjoys his books, runes, and magical arrays far too much to go outside their shared apartment hideout very often. But together, with their Mighty Friendship, they can overcome all of the various people and concepts that keep hardworking villains down. Especially themselves and their own personalities which are, until they attract the ire of a hero, their greatest enemies!

WWWWWW

They aren't kingpins, they aren't drug lords, they aren't super villains, but they are most certainly out for number one. This number one in question being, of course, their partnership, for they have tried going solo, and they cannot bear the thought of going solo again. Many villains try to go solo and end up gibbering lunatics and paranoid sleaze balls! And splitting the bills isn't that bad; neither is having someone to rely on for everything that being a villain entails. Would you rather have to break yourself out of prison or have a loyal friend on the outside willing to help? Would you rather try and fight a hero on your lonesome, or tag team his or her pretty, but ultimately useless, morals? Some simply aren't cut out for being a solo villain. It doesn't hurt that they share interests. And their skill sets just so happen to complement each other so well!

Close range fight, long range caster. Tank, glass cannon. Distraction, super destructive wizard.

It works for them, it's a solid build. Both cover each other's weak points and neither are so specialized as to be basically useless. The things that can be done with magic could fill every museum on Earth that's ever existed twice. If every spell was broken down into its most basic components and transcribed onto a hard drive, it would take up several petabytes of information. And that's just text, and shortened texts to boot, not even including proper grammar or even a short description of what the spells do. Throthdar is far more versatile than Eric, who acts like a spikey, boney shield to protect Hitler, a demonic mage of impressive magical power.

To reiterate, they haven't actually fought any heroes yet. Their criminal activities generally fly under the radar for the express purpose of avoiding heroes. This is all just planning on Hitler's part, the man/demon could plan like a champion. They have managed a comfortable, if not extravagant, lifestyle through their crimes and see no reason to suddenly escalate and attract undue attention. Sure, the jail breaking attracts way more attention than its worth, but Eric makes sure to do it while disguised and never in the same city (or even state) he lives in. A few grand of untraceable money is a drop in the ocean of money that most criminals that would even try to pay for a jail breaking earn, yet a few grand easily pays for food, Internet, cable, water, the rent, the cars, and the electric bill per month. And his services, or rather, 'Ossum Discutio's' services are in high demand, so they're never short on money. And even if they ever were short on money, it's not like they couldn't go and rob a convenience store or something for some quick cash.

Their apartment is decent, a typical apartment on the wrong side of town, some yellowing paint in the hallways but surprisingly well kept inside the apartment proper. Throthdar is quite picky about the arrangement of the rooms, the furniture, the paint, the floors, it must all be just _so_. Their Internet is a rather extravagant expense, but both use it far too much to even contemplate a lesser plan. Their cars are aged, yet still quite useable models and are close to being paid off in full. And their favorite part is that their apartment is placed in the perfect location from them; two blocks from a grocery store, several easily accessible escape routes within spitting range, and a friendly neighborhood Warhammer store, all the things that they would ever feel the need to live near to.

Unfortunately, recent events have caused a terrible event to occur. The economy tanked, which is generally bad for everyone, but it affected Eric and Throthdar just about the same amount as everyone else, maybe a little less, but it was still enough to send them in a moderate downward spiral. They are going to be kicked out of their apartment next month, their landlord sold the property and, for some reason, the new owners either didn't want them around or they weren't planning on leaving this building here. Throthdar had been expressing a small measure of discontent with their lives before this event, in his usual polite way, so they might just move to an entire new city rather than just into a new apartment. A new change entirely, rather than just the humdrum, day to day lives that they had both been content with.

But, apparently, Throthdar felt that their lives hadn't been good enough, and Eric had no reason to disagree with his best friend. The pickings _had_ been getting slim, and fewer people actually had need of his jail breaking services. With all the new blood heroes and villains springing up like weeds, there was a plethora of potential mercenaries, yet a shortage of jobs. A move could fix that.

Besides, there is a rumor floating around town about a new hero that decided to set up shop in their fine city. Wouldn't want to cross paths with that ornery git, would they?

WWWWWW

One Week Later

Rain pours from the dark, stormy sky as lightning flashed. Thunder booms overhead, angry orange light fills the entire street. A group of solemn people wait and watch as firefighters desperately combat the raging fire, the rain seemingly doing little to assist their efforts.

Eric C. Bones and Throthdar stand, cold and damp in their coats, across from their burning apartment. It hadn't even been their fault, they were just as much victims as any of the other tenants. That new hero that scuttlebutt had inferred the existence of had decided, against the wishes of many, to reveal his presence suddenly last night, beating one of their fellow villains in a fight, during which, one thing led to another, and then their apartment was set on fire.

Eric and Throthdar, dressed in whatever they could throw on during the rather sudden fire, glance at each other and pick up the bags of what little they had saved from the blaze and walk away through the crowds. They go to a nearby café and order a few warm drinks, coffee and tea, as the raging inferno hadn't quite bested the chill of the downpour. They stuff their bags and luggage under the table. Hitler places his favorite top hat, the one article of clothing he had gone out of his way to rescue, on the table as their drinks arrive, politely thanking the waitress. He adjusts his monocle as he takes his first sip, grinning at the flavor. Eric throws his brown leather overcoat off and places it beside his coffee, he clutches the warm cup with fingerless gloves over his hand as he desperately tries to heat them up. He glares down at his feet, their only protection from the cold having been flip flops; the closest thing on hand. They sit across from each other in a padded booth, silently contemplating the other, their drinks, their apartment, the hero, their lives…

"I say, that new hero is quite the little ruffian." Hitler remarks, sipping at his Earl Grey. Hot.

Eric blankly stares into his warm coffee, the sweet aroma filling his lungs as he breathes deeply, slowly, he begins, "I… can understand his desire to protect the people of the city, but…" Eric frowns, his tone growing petulant, "Did he have to destroy our apartment to do so?"

"Likely not, I would say," Hitler continues, "In fact, if it were not for our relatively massive...what is the colloquial term? Rap sheets, I believe; I would bring that man to court, I would."

Eric snorts lightly in good humor at his friend, blowing gently on his overly hot coffee to cool it down for consumption. He ordered it extra hot for warming his hands, but now it was working against him.

Eric grins lowly, rather like a smirk, "What would the Inquisition of Warhammer do, Throthdar?"

"Why, I dare say, I believe that they would exterminate the subject of their ire with extreme prejudice." He replies, then pauses, "Surely you aren't suggesting that we…? I'm sure it was merely an accident, Eric! No cause for such overreaction."

"Of course not, my friend." Eric reassures Throthdar, "I am merely suggesting that we apply some justice of our own to the situation we so unjustly find ourselves in."

Mildly amused, Throthdar replies, "That would be suitably ironic, given his status as a 'hero', and if the punishment fits the crime…"

They converse and plan for a bit longer before departing, Throthdar leaves a very generous tip for the waitress, as well as a small, personal note detailing how Throthdar believes that the waitress is a good woman that can do better than a mere waitress, if she applies herself, and how she really should reach for that degree, who cares what Reggie says, he's just using her anyway. Tom is a much better choice for her, and it's obvious that he really loves her.

They walk back out into the driving rain and make the short trek to their cars, held in a nearby parking garage. They toss the remains of their old apartment into the trunks of their respective cars, a Mercedes Benz W180 for Throthdar and a Toyota Celica for Eric, both aging well. They would collect the renter's insurance as soon as they could, Throthdar having been responsible enough to have shelled out for it. They wouldn't gain enough to cover everything they lost, but more than enough for what they really needed.

WWWWWW

Throthdar and Eric peer through their binoculars at the burning warehouse below them. They stand on the East bridge with the docks just below. It hadn't been particularly difficult to find the hideout of the hero, though they weren't sure of his name. Both Throthdar and Eric were sneaky enough to follow at an insignificant distance and not be detected. They tracked the poor, young, inexperienced hero to his hideout with very little difficulty. The choice of hideout was poor; warehouses are constantly in use in their city, traffic is high, there are generally only a few possible exits as recent terrorism scares have prompted increased security, all in all a poor hideout, one only an inexperienced hero or villain might choose.

They could see the little figure of the hero on the roof of the building opposite the burning warehouse, their joy as palpable as the little hero's despair is. They know for a fact that the little rapscallion doesn't have his renter's insurance, as the misanthropic fool didn't pay rent.

"The gasoline worked wonders, didn't it?" Eric muttered.

"I'm not sure about the gasoline, old chap, but the petrol seems to be working."

"It's gas, Throthdar. This is America, we call it gas."

"I recognize that, my friend. But I recognize it as petrol, rather than gasoline."

They had driven up to the place, after properly scouting it, of course, in a rather large, rented hauling truck that they had packed full of gasoline ready to be poured all over a warehouse. Of course, they made sure to properly scout the inside before they began splashing gasoline everyplace within the building. No sense in committing a crime before you've checked to make sure there aren't any cameras or witnesses.

Inside, they found all the requirements for a poorly thought out hideout. A sleeping bag, a lamp, a police radio/scanner. Truly, a poor showing all around. As they searched high and low for the actual site of this hideout, they came across a wooden crate with a manifest on top of it. Being a naturally curious demon, Throthdar carefully examined the manifest and found something worth appropriating. Whiskey. Premium, expensive, delicious whiskey. More than enough for two, unless they saved it for the remainder of their lives. There being several forklifts inside the warehouse, it was a simple matter to replace the wooden crate with several oil drums of gasoline and several oil drums of gasoline with a wooden crate. After knocking the drums over, they fled the scene, allowed the fluid to spread, then lit it up with a carefully prepared match striker trap. A perfectly executed revenge arson and grand larceny.

Later, they naturally broke the wooden crate into several hundred pieces and stashed the whiskey in Throthdar's Mercedes, they filled the trunk near to bursting and had to move Throthdar's bags over to Eric's car to better hold the nectar.

They watch the hero slink away, his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat.

Eric hums thoughtfully, "Hey, Throthdar?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you looked into any apartments?"

"Oh! I'm glad you asked, there is this really beautiful flat in Metropolis that I've been looking into. It's a one of those High Rises you hear about on the news, but we have enough saved up now to afford it for a few months, at least."

They gaze with great camaraderie at the burning warehouse, the firefighters only just getting to the scene. Perhaps that is what spooked the hero off the rooftop.

"Well…" Eric hums, slaps Hitler on the back, "Let's just hope that Superman or someone doesn't burn down this apartment."


	2. Chapter 2

As the sun did rise on the glorious city of Metropolis, two villains had long since been about their daily activities, as Throthdar only sleeps when he so chooses and Eric wakes up far too early in the morning, in his own opinion. Throthdar, as he saw the wearing of eye protection indoors rude, is testing his latest spell _Sunglasses_ by staring at this most glorious of sunrises, a cuppa set aside on a coffee table as he lounges on an extravagant couch near a veritable wall of crystal clear windows. The tea had been one of the first things he had obtained after the fire. The whiskey they had stolen is sitting comfortably in a dark alcove. Sitting just across the coffee table and nursing some orange juice next to a mostly eaten plate of pancakes, Eric surfs the web on the hotel provided laptop, his primary travel locations including various deep web mercenary sites and his own personal barely disguised jail breaking website. Eric is searching for a new job as the down payment on this high rise had bitten deeply into their savings. More than he or Throthdar are willing to let stay for very long.

It is a very high quality apartment, that's for damn sure. Throthdar has an eye for such things, he even managed to knock some money off of the monthly rent through creative application of pouting and a dash of hypnosis. It encompasses the entire floor of the building, the top five floors of the skyscraping apartment complex are the same high class apartment, and Throthdar managed to sneak his way in and grab one just as it became available. With a priority elevator, free Wi-Fi, complete kitchen, three bedrooms, two bath rooms, a rather large sitting room, an office, and a den, they might as well buy an entire house, they'd probably get it for cheaper too. But… it simply wouldn't have the view. They have windows on all four sides of the building, creating a beautiful panoramic display of the definitive modern city, Metropolis.

Throthdar grins as he subtly alters his latest spell, glowing irises are the only sign magic is even in use, a testament to his control over the wily energy source. His idea of subtly dimming how he sees the world resulted in a temporary blindness (though it very easily could have been permanent), so Throthdar has switched his focus to creating a small shield in front of his eyes instead of trying to directly interface with his brain and optic nerve; far easier. Trying something difficult when something similar would work just as well is a trait that the both of them share.

A loud, angry click echoes through the silent apartment, "No." Eric declares.

Another shortly follows, "Too hard."

And another, "Not enough money. No."

A great many people subtly, and some not so subtly, post on his website for assistance in being broken out of jail. It is a rapidly growing domain, as far as criminal websites go. He's gotten offers from almost half a dozen people since last week! Truly, business is booming. Now he could actually pick and choose individual jobs instead of having to try every other job he received.

Throthdar hums, "Hmm, I know that the sun should not be that shade of blue; I was going for _'Rose-Coloured'_ glasses, not _'Dabadee Dabadie'_."

"Sun's not blue, Hitler."

"I am well aware of that, but bugger me if I know why it's gone all pear shaped…" Throthdar stares at the sun some more, his tongue sticking out in deep concentration.

Eric chuckles at his best friend as he skips the next dozen lines of text on the job offer he is currently reviewing, skipping to the money offer.

"Wow…" he gasps, breathless. "That's a whole heap of zeroes."

The count of zeroes being exactly seven, and a whole one more than the previous maximum he's ever been offered, Eric became greatly enthused about this latest jail breaking. Of course, this amount of zeroes usually correlates exactly with the amount of risk a job involves. He might have to wear two masks as he works. Hell, with this amount of zeroes… it might be their barely sought after ticket to the big leagues! With his universal rule of money up front (so he doesn't get cheated by other villains), this particular job is quite worth it. It's even worth breaking his rule of not working inside city limits, and his only slightly less strict guideline about state limits. The pay is that grand. Either someone is seriously shelling out for a particularly important prisoner, or somebody just wants his toy back. It's really hard to tell with some super villains and other criminals of substantial resources.

The job had been sent in by some guy calling himself 'L2', which is a pretty standard pseudonym for anyone with a first or last name 'L', or someone with a bit of arrogance that reads manga. Whoever it is certainly did their homework, Eric opens a secure, encrypted file to find floor plans, guard shifts, even a stashed uniform for him. He doesn't get the identity of the target, which is pretty usual, but he does get the target location; the exact cell number. Or, really, the basement. A rather large, red 'X' has been marked on that entire floor, the only way in or out being a large service elevator. Hmm…. The kind of safeguards that go into elevators nowadays…

He sees a text document titled 'Notes', he opens it to find a small summary of the cell. Magical runes to hold the prisoner? Chains? Hard core. Another file reads 'Surveillance', and it contains several pictures and a few videos clearly taken from a tie or lapel camera. Not very good quality, constantly shaking, but enough for him. Combined with the floor plans, the uniform, and the other intel, he's practically set. There's no pictures or videos of the cell, probably because the spy or duped fool or whomever didn't have access, but that's fine. It's a cell, what could be in it besides the prisoner and his or her binds? Strange; whoever it is did a lot of work, perhaps they are sure that he'd take the job? Damn strange. Oh, that's nice. Apparently, the money wires directly into his account when he clicks the little accept link. How the hell did they know his account? Oh well, money's money.

"Hey, Throthdar?"

"Hmm, yes?"

"You think this job is worth doing for ten million?"

Eric twists the laptop around so that Throthdar can read it. Throthdar promptly glances at the screen to his sudden pain, he closes his eyes, hisses, and palms his forehead in agony.

"Bloody _Sunglasses_ spell." He snaps, "Why did that even hurt? It's just illogical!"

Eric watches with a ghost of a grin at his friend's error in judgment, Throthdar fights off the pain and spell enough to look back at the laptop, his eyes watering. Throthdar reads the files up and down, leaving out nothing. He even watches the videos and looks through the pictures.

Throthdar hums thoughtfully, "Well, chap, it certainly seems too good to be true, but…" Throthdar scratches his bare chin, "Considering our financial constraints at the moment, perhaps it would be best to try for it. Do you think you'll need help with it? I wouldn't mind turning off _Sunglasses_ if you need my aid."

Eric laughs, "Have you so little faith, friend?"

Throthdar replies with a jovial demeanor, "I'm a demon, 'ole chap, _little faith_ is something of prerequisite." They share a laugh at God's expense, or maybe Satan's. Probably both.

Throthdar smirks a bit and continues, "Also, if this job pans out for you, we won't need to worry over money for quite some time, freeing up my research schedule indefinitely."

Eric looks back to his laptop, "The idea of more work now for less work later is somewhat pleasing to me, I'm not sure why."

"Then good on you, friend. I'll be here, trying to fix this blasted spell if you find yourself in need of me."

"No time like the present." Eric slaps Throthdar on the back as he stands up.

As he moves towards the door to his bedroom, he laughs as he hears Throthdar shout behind him, "OH BLASTED HELLS, THE COLORS! THEY BURN!"

Eric shuts the door, cutting off the yells. He prepares for his normal, everyday job of breaking people out of prison for a modest sum.

WWWWWW

The trip to this prison isn't actually that horrible. Metropolis is a huge city but there are a large number of public transportation systems set up just for that reason. A single man dressed to the nines in an expensive suit walking with a briefcase to the subway then riding it across town because of the infamously terrible traffic isn't strange, it's an everyday occurrence. Sure, the fact that this briefcase holds the tools of an evil trade might only slightly reduce the commonness of it, but the other people don't know what it holds; the very point of the briefcase. Does Eric really have to be dressed in a suit? No, but he enjoys old movies and the main characters always wear suits. Also; Eric is of the opinion that suits are classy and that everyone should wear suits as often as possible, at least in public or when seducing women. He picked the suit up from the world famous America Suits and Stuff, the premiere in high end suits.

Centennial Carmichael Memorial Prison, (known colloquially as Metropolis Maximum Confinement Zone), no one knows why it's named that. But it is, and it's the place that Eric has to most stealthily infiltrate. A gleaming white citadel to justice and the rule of law is an adequate description of CCMP. Across the street and down an alley, someone stashed a uniform of one of the guards that work in the prison, clean and pressed, with a nice, evergreen smell wafting off of it. Probably to counteract the stink of the alley, and it works quite well. It comes with an ID, a security card, and, from what a lovely little letter tells him, at least three different passcodes needed to enter certain areas and four countermeasures that he would have to use to counteract the security systems. He very quickly undresses, unwilling to be caught naked in a filthy alley. He dresses again with the uniform and puts his suit into the briefcase that he had brought with him and slides the suitcase under the dumpster to better prevent thievery.

He globs glue on the rubber finger tips and places them over his own, he delicately lays the contact lenses onto his eyes, he wears the biometric dog tags over his neck, and slaps a sticky flesh-colored patch onto the side of his neck, this flesh containing a tattoo that needed to be scanned to get in the second door. All of this quickly changes to match his skin tone and blends quite well, even knowing it is there, Eric finds difficulty in seeing the transition from fake to real with the provided mirror. Some hair dye changes his natural blonde to brown, and a fake (though quite realistic) moustache goes over his bare lip. Finally, he changes the bone structure of his face. Any witness, any camera, any picture or video is utterly useless to the changed bone structure trick.

A glance around shows no witnesses to clean up. Bob, the newly dressed guard and veteran of the force for fourteen years, walks to the end of the alley, looks both ways, then crosses the street to the CCMP, or MMCZ, however you please.

Firstly, there is the surrounding fence he must walk through. It is flushed rather close to the building, as the prison is in the middle of a heavily developed city. There is a small gate next to a vehicle entrance, this one for pedestrians. The guard on duty gives him a look over and scans his biometric dog tags. As the scanner bleeps a clear, green light, he passes through the gate unchallenged. The guard waves him through with a friendly grin and a 'Have a nice day.' The next obstacle is the security code to the door, everyone gets one, unique to each day of the week. He had been given the codes for everyday up through next week, maybe the employer doubts his abilities to break a guy out on the very first day? The door opens to him and, surprise, surprise, there's another security check point. Except that this one actually looks mildly intimidating and competent. A few guards behind bulletproof glass, a pair of big, heavy doors, bright lights, white walls and floors, it kind of looks like a hospital and its orderlies. Regardless, the outcome will not change, he has been prepared well. He generously deposits a fingerprint on the proffered scanner, he opens his eyes wide for the optical reader, and a tool eerily reminiscent of a cashier's main weapon is placed against his neck over the tattoo. He does all of this with a suppressed frown and quiet disapproval, being quite used to the invasive and frankly annoying procedures required to enter the prison. He had been on the force for fourteen years now and he is beyond caring at this point, though his quiet disapproval is almost palpable. The average reaction of all guards working the prison, perfectly executed. Bob has to wait on one of the proffered chairs for a bit as they confirm his identity, all common occurrences. He hears a few positive beeps from his chair, and preemptively stands to walk back to the window, as a veteran would recognize the beeps for what they are. A few polite, professional, but utterly meaningless nods and Bob is welcomed into the prison proper.

There are rules to walking into places you've never been in, have no access to, and would be roughly thrown out of. Rule number one is acting like you should be there, simple enough. No fidgeting, no asking for directions, certainly no stopping and looking at signs. There's nothing interesting anymore; you've been there a million times, so if anything interesting is discovered, it must be ignored. Simple. That's really the only rule.

Eric, or rather, Bob, had memorized the floor plans. He knows precisely where to go. It's a rather compact prison, to be honest. It's almost entirely maximum security; no windows, no yard, no difficulty. A square shape all around with around fifty floors with a hundred cell capacity a piece. All of it built very regularly, with only a few exceptions: the basement had been custom built, by someone or other, there's also a medical level and a floor for off duty guards. But the sub-basement is just one big cell, as opposed to a hundred smaller cells with a common room and a few guard rooms. In the ultra-modern prison, there is no need for guns; every prisoner has a little chip in them to assist the guards in controlling their violent personas. The prison guards also have stun batons, heavy duty stuff. They don't deal with 'supers' here, but metas, definitely. Stairwells on every corner, electronically controlled on each floor to lock them down, and one elevator running top to bottom flushed to one side. Except for the deepest floor of the basement; at least half the building is underground, so calling it the basement is a misnomer. The deepest basement is where the target is located, and that requires a special little thing to get in. According to the files that 'L2' gave him, the elevator always has two guards in it. Riot grade armor, shields, and batons at all times. They have two keys, and both must be used simultaneously to get to the sub-basement.

But no man goes to work and immediately starts working. So Bob swings on by the ready room, fresh coffee and doughnuts every morning. He gets himself a nice, large cup; the good stuff, no skimping out in this prison, at least for the guards. The doughnuts are fresh and delicious and a pair of the chocolate coated pastries with sprinkles magically disappear into Bob's gullet; he hadn't had breakfast yet. The few other guards in the ready room don't seem to mind his presence, either because they are lazy and don't suspect infiltration, or that Eric is just _damn_ good at his job. Regardless, he is infiltrating, not socializing, though they can be quite similar, so he must give up his belated breakfast for the job. Ten million dollars waits for only a select few men.

So the elevator, Bob quickly makes his way over. As there is only the one car, it takes a bit for it to reach the ground level. Though, he doubts that many guards use it. If they are ordered to guard one specific block, there isn't much call to go up and down floors.

Ding.

It arrives at his floor.

The door slides open smoothly.

Bob grins easily at the two heavily armed and armored guards within.

"Howdy fellas, I'm going down."

Maybe the two guards share a glance at this, maybe they don't. That part's unimportant. For you see, just as the doors close and the elevator begins its loooong journey downwards…

Jonathan Wright believes in the future. He sees in Superman, in Batman, in all the heroes the world over, what humanity could become if only they try. He truly believes that peace in our time is well within reach. It is because of this that he volunteers to work at the Metropolis Maximum Confinement Zone. He wants to, in whatever way he can, help those heroes that kindle hope for the future in his and other's hearts.

Dies instantly, his heart pierced by a spike of bone.

William Ferguson is an average man. He is an average citizen. By God, he is average at most things. But he is exceptional at two things, both for the same reason. He is an exceptional father, and an exceptional guard. Both of these shining points came into his life from the same person and for the same reason. Superman. Before he met Superman, he was an average cop but a terrible father. He was never home and, after years of seeing his fellows killed by crazed villains, a heavy drinker. But one day, while responding to a distress call from a bank under attack by some two-bit villain, he noticed a child among the hostages. His little girl, Veronica. One robber had a gun to her head while another was shooting lightning at the police cars as they arrived. Still, though, through some of the best driving he had ever done, he was able to close with the target, but that's when it happened. As he dove out of the patrol car, he saw the villain's eyes finally abandon any shade of hope or sanity. He saw the villain's finger close on the trigger. And then, in that moment of despair, he saw a man, dressed in red and blue, with a 'S' on his chest, stick his hand between the gun and his little girl's head, and stop the bullet, catch the bullet. From that moment onwards, he volunteered to work at the MMCZ. He promised to himself on that day to never again let a villain threaten the innocent. And he sure and hell wouldn't ever abandon his own.

Dies clutching his throat while gazing at his dead friend as that damnable _traitor_ rummages through his and Jonathan's belts for two, insignificant little keys that take him on an express journey to the very bottom, the deepest pit. Code name: Hell. He can see the little camera in the corner… damnest thing, his focus is better than it's ever been… but he swears that the lens looks almost… shattered? Had it always been like that? No, his memory is so clear; it had been whole just before the man stepped on the elevator…

WWWWWW

With a ding, the elevator door opens, letting out three things; a man; his whistling; a rather hearty rendition of Imperial March; and a slowly expanding pool of blood. The song echoes throughout the entire empty chamber, utterly unoccupied except for one, single figure in the middle. It's by no means a small room and it's easy to tell why.

Every inch of this room is covered in glittering, glowing arcane characters of some kind, it's difficult for Eric to tell. He's not an expert on the subject of magic or, more specifically, magical runes by any means. If Throthdar were here, he'd easily be able to tell Eric more, but he's not, so he can't. Besides, he doesn't need to know about what they are to be able to turn them off. Like most magical runes; they stop when broken.

And then, there are the chains. This guy, whoever he is, is being held up to the four corners of the room by as many chains. Large chains, like cargo ship or oil tanker anchor chains. And these too glow with their own eerie magical light, bright blue and carved into the very steel. Runes and arcane imagery dot every inch of their links. From what Throthdar says to him while he's trying to watch the TV, there are several different languages for magical rune craft, but he's never paid attention to tell one from another. It's all Greek to him.

But then, in the very center, uncomfortably supported by the four chains, there is a man. Presumably, the guy that he's here to bust out. Eric, not being an idiot, makes the incredibly logical deduction that the chains are holding him down and that the runes on the walls are probably suppressing this guy's powers, whatever they may be. Because no reasonable person would lock up a normal person with all these chains and runes, there's got to be a reason for their presence. Logically, the man's a meta of some variety.

So, Eric focuses. Preternatural focus. That chain. Where can it break? Where is the fault line? THERE! He lifts an arm… snaps his finger… and the chain link shatters into a thousand little pieces. One. Two. Three. Four. The chains fall away, their links broken.

The elevator doors slam shut. Damn.

The man doesn't stir, the runes on the wall might still be affecting him. One. Two. Three. Four. The walls each had one large interconnected rune, a simple matter to shatter something so fragile that it must be carved into something solid to have any affect. Something so fragile and so large has a thousand little fracture points, and any one break ruins the array. Throthdar says as much. Granted, he says it primarily about summoning circles, but the concept should still apply, and it does.

The man doesn't stir.

Strange.

Why?

He has no binds any more. Perhaps a sedative?

Problematic, but not something unusual.

The elevator likely locked down, that's what he would have done.

There are no other entrances, the floor plans say so.

But the ceiling…

_SHATTERS._

WWWWWW

The door to the stairwell on the first floor breaks into an uncountable amount of pieces. Eric stumbles through, carrying a heavy burden. He trips over the pieces and the burden rolls onto the floor. He gasps on his hands and knees for sweet, life giving oxygen.

"Fucking… stairs…" he rasps, his breath ragged.

A guard sees him, rushes him, shouting, "Halt, criminal scum!"

As the guard raises his stun baton, crackling with potentially deadly electricity, Eric blocks with a bone sword, and stabs the guard in his foot with his other transformed hand, continually gasping for breath. The guard trips, his momentum sending him over a crouched Eric instead of bringing a baton down on his head, he crashes to the floor in a heap, out cold. There don't seem to be any other guards, which isn't that unusual. The rest probably went to lock down the prison.

He stands, breath restored. Eric doesn't particularly want to pick this man up, his objective. So he drags him down the debris filled hallway until they round the corner and discover the front door. The guards, again, seem curiously absent. What few obstacles there are become shattered by an impatient Eric. The former prisoner doesn't seem to mind being dragged through the detritus, he doesn't even twitch.

The small windows near the front door reveal nothing outside. If swarms of police are congregating, he can't see their lights reflecting. His passenger seems to stir a bit, a good sign. He hauls him through the few remaining doors, almost home free. Well, not really. They'd still have to go across the city and escape the police, etc. But, technically, the second that the guy crosses the threshold he's escaped from prison. So that means that Eric's job will technically be done. Generally, he doesn't leave the prisoners on the doorstep of their prison because that doesn't give the guy that hired him much incentive to not stab him in the back. But, with this case, he's seriously considering just dropping the guy and going. That had been a hard goddamn hike up those stairs.

He lifts his comatose friend to his shoulder in the front foyer. He shatters the front door and grimaces at the bright light. Inside the prison had been a much more reasonable brightness. Damn sun. Damn mirrored building windows. Eric just wants to go back to the high rise and sleep off this morning. Start again tomorrow.

With one hand lifted to block out the sun and the other supporting the man, who simply couldn't stop twitching as though he were vibrating in place, it's no wonder he misses the floating, red and blue super hero only a short distance from him, a disapproving frown on his face, arms crossed over his chest.

As it is, he walks right into the feet of this floating hero. Surprisingly, despite physics, Superman is not forced back by this collision but Eric and his quarry are thrown back, much to Eric's irritation. Eric lands on his hind end, glaring up at whatever so rudely stood in his way. The prisoner falls and tumbles farther away behind Eric.

As Eric gazes upon Superman, unable to hear his speech about love and justice or some such other bullshit over the sound of him crapping his pants, he remembers that he is in METROPOLIS, and that the best and brightest heroes in the world are at home here. Naturally, he understands that the Justice League has their HQ in Metropolis, but day one; Superman? That's just rough luck on his part. But the money is entirely worth it. It's not like he has to _fight_ Superman, he just has to _get away_ from Superman. Now if only something could distract Superman, if only for an instant.

A low, gurgling laughter comes from behind Eric, "You am good at speeches, Superman."

Superman glares harder, something clearly upset him, "Bizarro."

And Eric ran away in the resulting confusion. No law enforcement officer catches him; they are as far away from Superman and Bizarro as possible. A battle like that could flatten the city, so they stayed back after evacuating as many civilians as possible. This let Eric get away easily, right through the alley across the street. Superman might remember him, but so what? Wrong hair color, wrong eye color, wrong basic uniform, wrong bone structure, what does Superman know? He'll have all the important details wrong.

A businessman runs out of an alley on the far side of the city block where Bizarro and superman are facing each other down, just as the sounds of a super powered fight start to echo through the canyon walls of the city of Metropolis. The obviously harried man is rushed to safety by the present police officers. He's a thankful, humbled man, shaking as many hands as he can for the rescue. He is carefully advised to leave as soon as he could, and he does so without a glance backwards.

WWWWWW

"Thank you constable, that's my entire statement..." He leans in close and whispers, "Go back and see Jennifer, my friend, I'm sure you still have a chance if you're truly sorry."

The high rise is on fire.

"Oh my, Miss Hawkwoman, I can't thank you enough for catching me like that, I hope I didn't inconvenience you overmuch."

THE HIGHRISE IS ON FIRE.

"Ah! Eric, there you are! Before you say anything, I just want you to know that I managed to perfect my sunglasses on my way down, though it seems to have toasted up the flat and most all of our whiskey."

Throthdar looks around for any eavesdroppers, "It seems I took the 'Sun' part a bit too literally, you see, fire and alcohol sends everything balls up, it seems. It also sends me arse over tit out the bloody window, which is rather rude. On the bright side, I know how to shoot fire out of my eyes now. I've always wanted to do that."

Much louder, he continues, "Thank God there are all these heroes around to help out!" they both looks up to see a few flying heroes trying to put out the fire, "Though, how quickly the heroes responded is as queer as a clockwork orange, you have anything to do with that?"

"Well, my friend, I just narrowly escaped a battle between Superman and some villain or other, there are so many nowadays, it's hard to keep up."

Throthdar grins.

**(A/N - ONLINEIMHOTEP – another wonderful chapter, courtesy of a mighty A list author collaboration. CLAYTONIMOR AND ONLINEIMHOTEP.)**

**(A/N – CLAYTONIMOR - This is Claytonimor, various readers far across the multiverse. I'm the secondary writer for this and the owner of the much more interesting character...yeah...interesting is a good way to put that. Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, despite the lack of Throthdar/Hitler-ific action. This really marks the start of the story, so I hope you guys and gals all R&R.**


	3. Chapter 3

Instead of immediately having to find another apartment, Throthdar had been lucky enough to run into one of his old friends from an old embroidery class he used to teach. And this friend (quite unfortunately) had to leave on a business trip, but Throthdar easily convinced the woman that she needed house sitters. And who better than him, her long time, always gentlemanly, always dependable friend Throthdar? He helped her through college! It would have been a travesty for her to go on the medical path anyway; not when she had the fire, the passion, for reporting, for bringing the darkness of society into the light! Besides, reporters lead a more exciting life with a similar chance of horrible death!

"You needn't worry, Eric. Lois offered very generous terms for this house sitting, so long as the place doesn't burn down, we should be fine." Throthdar smiles as he eats some crumpets while lounging on a couch, BBC on the television.

"We're in the apartment of a world class reporter that has, like, full time access to Superman, for some reason. Why shouldn't I be worried?" Eric asks as he looks around the apartment with some trepidation, as though the super in question might be in the apartment.

Throthdar hums thoughtfully, sipping his tea, "Well, she's in the Middle East right now, so even if everything goes balls up, we should be able to escape."

"Why would we have to escape?" he lifts a vase, carefully inspecting underneath and looking through the plastic flowers for spy cams or webcams or recorders of some kind. Paranoia isn't paranoia if they really are out to get you.

This Lois Lane's apartment is quite spacious, in fact it is very similar to their most recent rooming. Some might say that they're basically the same apartment, except that this one has a more… feminine touch. This is likely a result of this tower being owned and operated by the same company and that a woman lives in this one. Weird.

Throthdar carefully puts down the tea cup and adjusts his monocle, silently cursing Hitler's bad eyesight, before looking over at Eric, "I'm damn near certain she's Superman's better half, that's why. He might walk in on our trespass, we'll have to speak with great alacrity, by the way. And don't you dare think of using her because of it."

"Oh yeah, because I'm the bad guy! I'll be the guy to screw with a woman based on her choice of partners! You're literally Hitler! You have no room to speak." his fumbling, bumbling hands almost drop the vase but he catches it just in time, and sets it back into place only slightly worse for wear.

"Now, now, Eric, there's no call for that. The actions of my host bare no reflection on me, even if my host made a few bad choices a few decades back and even if I am a demon that eats a person's moral fiber like crumpets (there is a reason I do so enjoy tea) until their soul is but a whisper in the wind." Throthdar waves his fingers, mimicking the long lost souls of his hosts drifting into the wind.

Eric frowns mightily, "God damn it. You sucked _all_ the energy out of the room! We just made, or I just made, really, ten million dollars! Then we get your doomy and gloomy soul eating. Where's the cheer, where's the celebration, where's the champagne!?"

"Didn't I tell you, Eric? It all caught on fire." Throthdar grins.

"That was the whiskey, you old goat."

"Well, excuse me!" Throthdar acts quite insulted, "I am not a goat, that's Lucifer, the cheeky cunt."

Eric laughs at the old Nazi, his boisterous laughter filling the marble halls of the expensive apartment.

"So, what does that make you then?" he asks, walking over to the particularly well stocked refrigerator for his own snack.

"Just your average, soul sucking, everyday Brit. It's why I have such impeccable wit." He chuckles, sips his tea.

"The hell?" Eric mutters, leaning into the fridge.

He reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a small black piece of fabric. He unfolds it and he realizes that it's a mask, a black leather mask to cover the eyes. He looks back in and pulls out a leather riding crop. He looks down in disbelief at the objects in his hands, he looks over at Throthdar who is looking at him with an equal amount of confusion.

Throthdar mutters, "That's not where those go…"

Eric slowly, carefully… puts them right back…

WWWWWW

"KILL ME, KILL ME! OH, PLEASE GOD, JUST KILL ME!"

Throthdar steps through the door and gently closes it behind him, the screams cutting off with the soundproof door. He glances at Eric, sitting on the couch, with a look in his eyes that tells Eric that nothing is to be worried over. Screaming man in the closet? No problems.

Throthdar joins Eric on the couch and sighs, "I try to be reasonable with some people but some just keep trying to pass off powdered malachite aurum for salted drake scale." He shrugs, contemplating, he's still yet to restock over their twice burned apartments.

"Weren't we, just yesterday, talking about how Superman might show up at any minute?" Eric asks, only moderately uncomfortable, "There's a guy in there being tortured to death."

"Well, yes, but you certainly can't be expecting me to allow such a falsehood as the one he was permeating to just go unpunished, do you? And besides, it doesn't really feel like home till I've tortured someone in it." He sighs with nostalgia.

"Throthdar, this is someone else's apartment. This is what's her face's apartment… Lois'? I don't think you should do that here."

"She already had her own torture equipment, old bean. I am just making sure it gets put to proper, English use."

"It sounds like Bloody Mary's dungeons in there, man!"

Throthdar grins, "Ah, Mary… I had a wonderful time with her, being killed by her, being her, ruling England, and then being her killer. Wonderful chap by the name of Richard, though I doubt you've heard of him. Great assassin. Eric, my friend, do you know how hard it is to make a death look like the flu?"

Eric shakes his head at his friend, exasperated in his friend's casual retelling of history. Throthdar usually espouses all the good traits of his hosts, rarely their bad. Of course, discussing negative traits about the dead is ungentlemanly. They watch the 'telly' for a bit just to pass the time. There's nothing particularly good on, Lois didn't spring for the good channels apparently. She probably isn't much of a television viewer.

Throthdar, being quite bored with this inane television (he doesn't understand the value others see in it), decides to take the initiative with life. Why sit and stare when he could be out in the world, doing things?

"I think I'll go for a stroll, Eric." Throthdar says, standing.

Eric stops the demon, "Whoa, whoa, whoa… there's a dying man in the other room. If you're leaving, he's getting tossed out the window. This high up, he'll reach terminal velocity. They'll have no clue which floor he dropped from."

Throthdar chuckles good naturedly, "I don't think these windows open, Eric." Whistling a jaunty tune, he walks out the door, planning on eventually wandering off towards the burnt out husk of his former apartment.

He leaves his friends Eric questioning the room, "Laundry chute? No. I could chop him up and sift him down the drain, hmm…"

WWWWWW

"What a wonderful day for a walk in the big city."

Throthdar breathes in the crisp, cool air of the surprisingly clean city. He waves with great, friendly intention at a few passersby, but they ignore him. While ultramodern, the people in Metropolis still retain that city people attitude of casual, mutual ignoring. The great tumult of a million people presses on his ears as he walks in silent wonder through the city. He has an eventual destination in mind, but that hardly precludes all the fun aspects of a stroll.

This is Metropolis, City of Light, City of Magic! There are a great many famous buildings, historical buildings that he would love to visit. There are more than enough tourist destinations for Throthdar and, since he had never been previously, that is just about what he is. He takes the time out of his day to swing by historic Daily Planet, where Lois works, the great globe the organization might just be named for inspires a moderate sense of awe in Throthdar. While his personal interest lay in magic and its applications, especially in its applications come to think of it, he always admires the way the non-magical folk manage to survive, thrive, and build wonderful, non-magical constructs. Of course, building it with magic would be faster, easier, and it would be far prettier, but it's the very fact that the glove was difficult to manufacture that it is beautiful. Like going to the Moon without powers, it's an achievement.

He continues on through the city, the many sights enticing his weathered frame. He eventually finds directions to the Metropolis Museum of Natural History, famed for having the most recorded attempted break ins, by pestering a nice young man until he caved. No one is allowed into the Greek section, unfortunately. It seems as though they'd suffered a recent break in, one that was successful to boot. How unfortunate, culture and history should be above such petty things such as crime. Thankfully, the rest of the museum is open to everyone. And it's free on Wednesday, today, what joy!

He wanders through the sections, politely appraising the many pieces, but not finding anything that particularly strikes his fancy. But then, he wanders through the Egyptian section. While walking through the large, open room, he stops briefly to read over one of the tablets on display more fully.

"Oh Ra, you silly Sun God, you." Throthdar chuckles lightly, the Egyptians always had the best comic strips. Strange that they are on display though, he's only ever heard of a historical comic section at some other museum, he can't quite recall.

One of the more prominent pieces, set near the entrance on the other side of the room, catches his eye next. Why, sure as he possesses the remains of Hitler's discarded flesh, that has to be his old friend Imhotep's sarcophagus! He wanders over closer, intent on reminiscing on his old friend. As close as he dares to come to the locked case, as there is a helpful velvet rope determining the appropriate distance, Throthdar gazes evenly down on the case of the corpse of his friend. He fights down the distinct urge to raise him. Surely he must be bored, wherever he is? But, no. Such a thing would attract undue attention. And it's been a rather long time, the body would likely disintegrate the very instant Imhotep's spirit tried to animate it. Throthdar shrugs, and instead imbues the casket with the ability to turn everything in the museum to life by the moonlight, as he saw in a movie he had watched with Eric. Night at the Smithsonian, he believes. Magic is quite naturally a shiny, bright light of a substance, but Throthdar had had the foresight to bring along a billowy coat to fight back against the chill. He and Eric had made the time to replace their wardrobe. Throthdar grins as he knows that Imhotep, wherever he is, is surely approving of this action, the old rascal, the prankster.

Throthdar wipes tears from his eyes as he desperately holds back the roaring laughter, remembering one of Imhotep's better ones. He ordered a man to be slowly lowered into a pit of hungry lions for some perceived slight, Throthdar can't remember. At the last moment, the Pharaoh ordered the man to be raised, instead of lowered, narrowly missing a leaping lion by inches. 'Just kidding!' he had shouted. By Satan himself! The humor! Ah, and then! He slashed through the rope with his khopesh saying, 'Not really!' and all laughed as the man was eaten horribly!

Ah, good times, good times indeed, and a good friend.

There are a few more sections to the museum, but Throthdar's done reliving his history. It's awfully nice of people to build great, gleaming buildings full of memories for him, but he really should be going. He has things to do, well not so much things as thing, but still. It's a large city, he would like to see all of it, or at least as much as he logically could given the circumstances.

As luck should have it, upon exiting the building on the other side of where he came in (and thoroughly losing what little sense of direction he had), he chances upon a curious site. A cordoned off area just up the street, positively brimming with police and quite a few firemen. He crosses the street to get a better angle on just what he's looking at, and discovers that it is most definitely that fancy prison that Eric had broken someone out of earlier… Whatever happened to just tying a man up, strapping some weights to his legs, and tossing him into the river? That was effective! Or crucifixion!

He wisely chooses to avoid the mass of police officers, and instead walks towards that green area he can see just ahead. More than just a tree or two, there seems to be actual grass growing near it. Despite nearly being hit by a half dozen cars on the way, Throthdar manages to cross the street. Unfortunately, he has to contend with more streets, though these ones are far easier, being side roads. This green area that he had so carefully spotted turns out to be the Metropolis Metropolitan Park! And what a name it has! Two eerily similar words and an extra noun for clarification!

Oh, why not a stroll through the park? A stroll through the city is simply not complete without the major parks. A fine park, as far as parks go. Greenery, bike trails, joggers, at least one man fishing, despite the relatively low chances of him getting a bite. It's too chilly for most park activities, such as friendly neighborhood barbeques or picnics or what have you. Throthdar has always been fond of falconry, but it appears that no one here is practicing the fine sport. It's a good day for it; he silently wonders why no one is present.

Vaguely, he recalls that the old apartment is on the other side of this park. Very vaguely. In fact, it isn't until he spies the back sides of some of the unique, colorful decorations on the buildings that he had seen from the old apartment that he realizes that he is in fact moving in the correct direction. That particular configuration of signs, billboards, and graffiti he saw from the window of the old apartment, therefore, he is closer to it now than when he started.

His mood improves as he pieces the puzzle together. Unfortunately, his good vibrations are mangled when he hears the cries of a little girl, both for her mother and just crying in general. Moving towards the source, he quickly comprehends the situation. A little girl, perhaps five or six years of age, trying and failing to hold back tears as she reaches up at the branches of a tree plaintively. A cat, similarly distressed, lay in the tree and, from its own pitiful cries, desperately wishes it could return to the ground. Certainly not an outdoors cat, but then again it's the city. They're either indoors or feral.

Unwilling to just let a little girl feel distress, he wanders over and offers his assistance in his most gentle tone of voice.

"Calm down, little one, I'll get your friend out of the tree." He smiles warmly and the girl, for her adorable little part, tries her best to stop her crying.

He kneels down beside her and, still grinning, whispers, "Watch…"

His hands glows purple and the branch the kitten sits on slowly, gently bends and curves downwards until the cat, with its great agility, could walk down the branch and jump into the arms of its master. The little girl watched this with open awe on her pretty little face; innocent curiosity and wonder glowed from every pore on her body. Her joy, her elation at retrieving her kitten is made quite evident with the care and love she put into handling the little creature. Throthdar smiles in honest, heartfelt joy at the sight.

"Miranda! Miranda!" a voice filters through the breeze.

The little girl immediately turns and shouts, "Momma!"

The girl's mother, presumably, comes running over, "I thought I lost you, sweetheart!" she gathers the girl, Miranda in an embrace.

"Mittens got stuck in a tree," she points at Throthdar, "And he saved her!"

The mother is wary, understandably. She had just lost her child, only to rediscover her in the company of a stranger.

She still tries though, she smiles, "Thank you for the help-"

"It was my pleasure." Throthdar interjects.

"-But we really need to get moving." She lifts her child and tells her, "Say goodbye to the nice man."

Miranda meekly raises her hand, "Bye bye."

Throthdar silently waves in a hearty farewell, but, as soon as the mother starts to walk away and little Miranda can see over her mother's shoulder. He gives a smile, a wink, a silent finger over his mouth 'Shh' and, with a flurry of leaves, he vanishes. A silent gasp escapes her mouth, wonder on her face.

Throthdar watches from behind a tree a short distance away as the pair leaves. Why teleport a long distance and tire himself out when he could not and not? There's nothing quite like inspiring awe in children. It's dangerously addictive! And he knows that the little girl, Miranda, would be pestering her mother for years and years, probably on the subject of magic.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

A cloak of dark energy quickly envelops a still Throthdar. Lifting and holding him in place.

"Oh dear," he comments, "I know I've felt magic like this before, but where?"

"Why are you here?" a dry, monotonous voice asks, he can't see the speaker but the gender, at least, is clear.

"Sneaking up on an old man? For shame, young lady." He chastises the young witch, not trying to turn his head. The magic would stop him unless he resists actively.

"Now, or I'll crush you, demon." Oh, such hostility!

"Well, I simply cannot argue with that tone, my dear." He says genially, "Throthdar the Helpless, at your service. I would bow, but, as you can plainly see, I seem a touch tied up at the moment." He chuckles.

"I didn't ask for an introduction," the magic tightens, cutting off his chuckles, his ribs would be bruising if there were blood to cause the bruise, "_Why_ are you here?" oh, the delicious emphasis on 'why', promising certain doom, how eloquent.

"Why, I was merely enjoying a walk through this city on a pleasant afternoon, letting off some stress with healthy exercise." She finally rotates him about so they're face to face, he grins at her, "Surely you were up to much the same, Ms. Roth? Being the Portal must get you rather uptight as well, no?" he groans (internally, mind. English gentlemen don't groan aloud) as she squeezes him with great magical force. Why, if he were a lesser demon, he might be moderately concerned!

"Dear Rachel, while I appreciate your attempts to straighten my back, might I suggest a more civilized discussion?" his infuriating grin is surely throwing off her control, granting her more power too, but that's fine.

"Not until you tell me the truth. Did my Father send you? Has he not hurt me enough?" her emotional control is clearly wavering, how quaint.

"I can assure you that your little father didn't send me, my dear. I can barely stand the rat bastard," her anger, so clear on her face, rises, "I've been here for some thousands of years of my own volition."

"And why should I believe you?" aw, she still tries for the calm, collected voice though, points for that, and cuteness.

"My dear, adorable, little cousin in demonhood, surely you know the difference between those ruffians of Trigon's and Satan's A-class gents. I'm sure the monks taught you that, at least." His snark levels are off the charts.

In an instant, he's gone. Teleportation. She swivels around, preparing another spell, her eyes going black and her hair standing on end, "Azarath- urk!"

Throthdar sticks a large lollipop in her open mouth, stopping her chant right in its tracks. He envelops her in a large, friendly hug.

"My adorable little cousin! You should know when you can arrogantly taunt your opponent and when you should take them with one, huge blast right at the beginning. But that's okay! You're just learning. Come with me, we'll see about getting you an education! And hopefully a new wardrobe! What is this? Jeans? No, no, no, no; this simply isn't fit for a lady."

Oh, at this rate, he'll never be able to wander by the old apartment and clean it of any evidence that might be lingering. But, his honor and word as a gentleman forces him to correct his adorable little cousin. Of course, though he is forced, he is glad to be of help to adorable little Rachel! Ah, to be separated from the only good parent, such a shame. He and Arella go way back and for such a thing to happen to such a wonderful woman, well, it's just terrible.

Unfortunately, he spent far too much time reminiscing earlier. He should focus on the present now or he'll get all moody. Adorable little Rachel needs some learning, some schooling! Imagine, not taking him out when she, at the very least, might have barely had a small tiny chance of possibly causing something that might harm him mildly! And she didn't even take it! Clearly, she needs some education. And where better than the famous University of Metropolis?

He shuffles in that general direction, dragging a moderately unwilling Rachel with him. Now, to find some nice passerby that might have proper directions…

WWWWWW

"Now, while calling her 'Bloody Mary' at the time was considered a faux pas, she really did quite a bit to bring England closer to the Church in Rome, paving the way for Elizabeth to form the Modern Anglican Church, which was and is very similar to the Catholics in practice but still Protestant in name, allowing England to avoid most of the religious wars that the Reformation and Counter-Reformation caused."

He stops, considering, "Though the executions could have been toned back a bit, I suppose." He grins.

"Now, questions?" he asks the large crowd sitting on the steps, him standing at the top, a glorious public, impromptu lecture the likes of which haven't been seen since Aristotle and his ilk.

Unfortunately, it seems as though the University either does not accept any students at all or simply doesn't accept fourteen year olds. Strange, usually they are in desperate need of money and accept anyone, no matter their grades. Rare is the day that a university with actual moral integrity is discovered. And so, Throthdar took it upon himself to teach a bit of history. He wants to start on some other subjects, but realizes that his time is running out rapidly. He still has a few chores to do, really just the one. That apartment won't clean itself of magical residue.

A discontent Rachel sits in the front row, unwillingly enjoying the lollipop as Throthdar had earlier used magic to prevent her removal of it. The rest of the crowd consists primarily of college students, though a small number of pedestrians and professors are also in attendance.

A few raise their hands, but Throthdar simply doesn't have time for them, he pretends he can't see them, "No? Well then, I'm sorry to say, but I have to go. I'll see you all later." He waves good bye at all the adorable little students, though the few attending professors seem intent on speaking with him. Irritating.

He helps Rachel to her feet, "Come now, Rachel. Let's go and see the Justice League Headquarters next, unless you have something that needs doing?"

She glares at him, silent and defiant from behind a large lollipop. Perhaps she has something to say, but she can't speak. Oh well, if it is really important, she'll find a way to communicate the matter.

"Well then, the Justice League awaits!"

He walks off towards the nearest street with Raven in tow, deftly avoiding the professors. He hails a cab and, due to his primarily white pallor, he receives one rapidly. He snaps his fingers, creating purple sparks, and Rachel rips the infernal lollipop from her mouth and throws it at the ground.

He grins, "Don't you like sweets, Rachel dear?"

She glowers, "I'd rather eat a lemon right now."

He laughs as a cab pulls up to the curb.

He grins at her and holds the door to the cab open, like a gentleman, "You know, I rather thought that you'd have left me by now."

"Even spending time with a demon is better than being alone." She whispers.

Aw… Throthdar cries silently to himself. Such a pretty young lady, forced to mature so quickly! It's a travesty of justice!

"Well, Ms. Roth, I must say that I've found your company to be quite pleasant as well."

Throthdar turns to the cab driver, "Justice League Headquarters, if you please."

"You got it, Mac." By God, that's the most New Jersian accent that Throthdar's ever heard, and he would know, he helped found New Jersey!

It's a fairly short drive over to the Justice League Headquarters, as far as driving in the city goes. No more than ten minutes or so, but they do cross the city almost. Perhaps the traffic isn't as bad as he thought? Regardless, the kindly cab driver drops them off in front of the HQ, a large green area with some statuary, some flags as well, a fountain, some symbols, an engraved stone entrance, a nice place all in all. Throthdar pays the man his due, and adds some more for his prompt service and for purposefully avoiding swearing the presence of a lady and a child, Throthdar could tell that the man had held back an oath more than once. Gentlemen have to stick together, so Throthdar also gave him some advice on economics and how he might grow to rule the cab industry in Metropolis. First one cab, then two, then the depot, then a fleet! He could only go up!

He turns to regard this magnificent structure, this pinnacle of human engineering. Of course, many things are more difficult to construct, such as those damnable domes! When the people of Europe forgot how to make domes, an event that saddened and confused Throthdar, he made some arrangements for them to rediscover the technique. Then the bastards over used it, making domes boring. But this building is pretty nice, angular, rather like a pyramid. White marble too, not bad.

"Isn't it pretty, Rachel dear?" he asks.

She shrugs, "It's okay, I guess."

"Not one for architecture, I take it? That's okay. I'll get you a nice magical book from my personal library. A smart girl like you could put it to some good use." He smiles warmly at his adorable little cousin, she looks away in embarrassment. Aw, such a cute little cousin.

He takes her by the hand, "Well, let's go and see the inside!"

He storms across the mighty plaza and walks directly at the majestic front door! A sputtering Rachel trailing behind him, clearly concerned over his blasé approach of one of the most heavily secured buildings in existence.

With a calm and confident, yet clearly amused, smile, Throthdar prepares to knock on the extraordinarily large front door when, from behind him, a rather confused voice spoke up, "Wh-what are you doing?"

Throthdar spins around to regard the speaker, in all of his crimson glory.

"Oh, just the man I was looking for! Mr. Flash! A pleasure to meet you, sir." Throthdar reaches out a hand for a handshake, and hesitantly receives one from the young hero.

"You might not recall, but yesterday you and your team mates saved my life from a rather impertinent fall. I just wanted to come by and express my thanks."

"Uh… thanks?" Flash rubs the back of his head, clearly embarrassed, "But, you really can't just-"

"Oh! And you simply must meet my adorable little cousin, Ms. Roth!" he indicates the young girl that had taken shelter behind him.

Rachel, ever so tentatively, reaches out her hand for a shake, and the hero replies in kind. The awkward greetings make Throthdar chuckle a bit, "She's always been a bit shy, haven't you Rachel?" she glares, so cute.

Mr. Flash again tries, "Well, thank you for stopping by, but you can't _really_ be on-"

"I just came by to invite you and the Hawks over for tea! It's only proper, considering what you saved me from." His grin is quite wide.

"Tea?" Mr. Flash asks.

"Yes, tea!" Throthdar opens the front door and holds it for Mr. Flash, "It's the least I could do!" he ushers Rachel and Flash through the door.

A large, open lobby is spread open before them. Flash unconsciously starts heading towards wherever he believes the Hawk-folk might be roosting, Throthdar's constant chatter distracting the poor hero from all the logical centers of the brain. Rachel follows beside them, her eyes quite large with wonder, never quite getting enough of the Realm of Super Friends.

They wander through a few of the corridors, sparsely decorated, until they reach a large, impressive metal door, which Flash graciously opens for them. He probably has some kind of biometric scan that he walked through earlier; nothing else would explain the lack of security.

This less majestic and more practical metal door opens on a large, darkened room, full of computer screens and holograms and charts and graphs and portraits of particularly villainous villains with their known abilities, and the room is replete with leather chairs. Only a few members of the famous Justice League are present, but the ones that are blow Throthdar away!

Glorious Batman! Majestic Hawkwoman! Batman's… nondescript apprentice! And that's it, it's a rather empty HQ come to think of it… No guards, no secretaries, no janitors…

Flash seems to just now come to his senses, underneath the truly frightening gaze of Batman. Instead of the comfortable, companionable confidence he expressed on the walk over, he shrinks in on himself as he realizes just who is standing beside him. Civilians. The one thing Batman hates being in places they shouldn't be, even more than villains because at least he could punch villains.

Flash hesitates, greatly, "Uh…. I-I'm back, guys." He chuckles, clearly nervous beyond compare.

"Flash." Batman's hard, cold voice echoes across the room, the glare clearly visible despite the low light. Hawkwoman appears to settle in for a good show. The good Robin seems to melt into the shadows that are so prevalent in the area, they should really invest in some better light fixtures.

"Y-yes, B-Batman, sir?"

"What have I said about letting unauthorized personnel into the headquarters?"

"N-not to?"

"Is that a question?" that demonic glare intensifies.

"Not to." Flash seems to regain what little might possibly remain of his confidence with that reply.

"Then why are they here?" he indicates Throthdar and the adorable little Rachel.

Flash turns to regard them, his entire body screaming uncertainty, "I… I'm not really sure…?"

Throthdar waves, "Hello, Batman, sir! And Mrs. Hawkwoman! It's an honor to meet you both, truly. I am Throthdar and this is my adorable little cousin Rachel." He drags her in front of him, aw, she seems upset with being called adorable every time he talks about her, "I was merely planning on offering Mr. Flash and Madam Hawkwoman, and perhaps Ser Hawkman, a spot of tea in thanks for their rescue of myself just yesterday!"

"You are the man that fell from the burning building, correct?" Hawkwoman asks, receiving a nod from Throthdar, "I'll be coming and so will my husband."

"You honor me with your gracious acceptance." Throthdar bows, as he does so, he notices the Robin child out of the corner of his eye. Quite hidden, quite close, splendidly done. He seems curious of Rachel, how adorable. As Throthdar straightens, he subtly points Rachel in his direction.

Flash shrugs, "I… guess I'll show up?"

Throthdar grins, "Wonderful." Though he swiftly becomes distracted by the conversation happening slightly below his ear level.

"What are you staring at?" Rachel asks the weirdo that thinks he's hiding. Granted, it took Throthdar's help to find him, but still.

"You." is the reply. What a cheeky bastard! All of the adults smirk at the conversation, even Batman, though it is a small smirk.

As Rachel formulates a truly devastating reply, Batman interrupts, "I'll be coming too."

Ignoring the social faux pas of simply inviting one's self, Throthdar replies, "Excellent! The more the merrier! Would you like to come over at, oh let's say, 7 o'clock?"

Batman frowns, "It's 6:30 now."

"Oh my, where has the time gone?" Throthdar exclaims, he hadn't thought he had spent so much time, "Well, seven still works for me, but I might need to swing by the store first." Throthdar calculates the time in his head, "But I will have plenty of time, please come over. And, young Robin, you're cordially invited too. Here's my address, Mr. Flash, please try not to be late. Tata, for now!"

Throthdar leaves, carefully separating Rachel and Robin. He wouldn't want there to be a scuffle in the middle of the Justice League Headquarters.

"Now, young Rachel, would you like to come along as well?"

The voice cuts off as the door automatically shuts.

"Hey Batman," Flash says, "Why'd you agree to the tea party? You never do anything with anyone."

"I'd like to know too, Bats." Hawkwoman adds her two cents.

"There's more to him than meets the eye." Batman states plainly, as though it is blindingly obvious, but he continues with an explanation for his less gifted… colleagues, "He managed to see Robin when he was hiding with just a glance. Most trained villains couldn't do that. And, he bears a striking resemblance to Adolf Hitler. I want to know why."

WWWWWW

Wonderful, adorable little Rachel decides to join his little gathering of heroes. She says that it's because she has nothing better to do, but Throthdar can feel the love radiating out of her. And, how strange, Lois' apartment isn't too far from the Justice League HQ; easily within walking distance. It's almost as though he's been on a long, circular path this whole time, destined to come back to where he started. He still wants to swing by the old apartment, clean the place up, but reasons that it will still be there tomorrow. And the odds of anyone deciding to sift through the place with a magical scanner are miniscule and the chances of anyone taking those findings and somehow connecting them to him are infinitesimally small. He'll do it tomorrow.

Hmm… a thought does occur. What if Eric had not had the foresight to clean that… fellow, whatever his name is, from the place? He said he would, but Eric isn't terribly known for doing things that he says he might do, especially if he says them in passing, as though he barely even had the thought himself. Oh well, a simple spell and the place would be clean, if it needs cleaning. Blood stains can be so hard to get out of… really everything, really, if you don't have access to magically powered cleansing abilities. Like most things, if there's a problem; magic it away!

Thankfully, Eric seems to have taken care of that little spot of bother. As Throthdar enters the room with an adorable little Rachel in tow, he seems more focused on his large, cardboard delivery box than anything else. And the whole apartment smells of lemon scented Pledge and bleach. In fact, Eric doesn't even notice their presence at all until Rachel closes the door a bit too roughly.

Though he does not look up at them…

"Hey, Throthdar!" the normally quite lethargic man shouts, "C'mere and help me with this thing! Got a monster of a new PC, this thing could run the federal government, it's so sweet! Cost a pretty penny too, come to think of it… Day of delivery cost a lot too, but who cares?" Eric seems quite excited, and Throthdar smiles in joy for the happiness of his friend.

"Quite nice to see you again, Eric, might I introduce a cousin of mine? Ms. Roth, this is Eric Bones, a close personal friend of mine."

Still, Eric does not look up, "Yeah, hey, nice t'meetcha kid. I'ma little busy here for hellos. Bastard has to weigh four hundred pounds."

Throthdar grins over at Rachel, "It's part of his charm, my dear."

She rolls her eyes, "Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

And, in the time it takes to say three words, the computer in all of its glory is finally removed from the box and deposited in the clearly designated location. Finally, she gets Eric's attention.

He looks over, and carefully inspects her, "Jeez kid, don't be so rough with the hardware. That's probably worth more than you'll ever make in a year." He sighs, "But, I'm probably sounding like an ass right now. Nice to meet you, I'm Eric, yadda yadda yadda, Throthdar, you're a dick." Eric points at the elderly demon with great venom, "Turns out the windows don't open, and I spent like three hours working that thing down the dispose-all. You never appreciate the things I do for you! I cut myself a few times shredding it up, just so it would fit!" he holds up a bandaged hand, long since stopped bleeding.

Eric groans theatrically, "Then I had to clean the mess. Bleach and lemon Pledge_, everywhere_! I'll be smelling that crap in my dreams, _against my will_! You, my friend, unintentionally caused the rape of my nose. I demand recompense."

Despite herself, Rachel cracks a small grin. Eric notices and smirks, "Like the dirty humor kid? I know I did at your age, what are yah? Fourteen?"

"Correct." She mutters, slightly upset with being guessed at.

"Hehe, I knew it. I'm never wrong." He laughs.

Throthdar clears his throat, "Eric, while it's nice to see you getting along well with Rachel, please don't use such language around her." A few moderate warning glances and a few subtle hand symbols born from a few years of knowing each other immediately show Eric that Rachel is not aware of their more self-serving activities and that it shouldn't be mentioned, or even implied.

"Fine, mom. I'll try not to scare Rachel off." He smirks, appraising Rachel, "If I even could, she looks tough." She smirks with a tiny amount of pride. Aw, so cute. Clearly, approval from mature people pleases her. Children, well, teenagers really, so adorable.

"And another thing," Throthdar continues, "I'm expecting guests. I've invited some of the heroes that saved me earlier over for tea."

Eric groans and holds his head in his hands, "Aw man, I hate those guys! Always with the collateral damage!" he adopts a dumb, though possibly valiant voice, "'Hey, look, a villain! Let's blow up a city block!' Bastards."

Throthdar sighs at his friend, though Rachel seems confused. Why the distaste for heroes? They certainly try to help.

"Hell." Eric continues, massaging a suddenly aching forehead, "Let's roll out the welcome mat, I suppose. But I'm not drinking any of your filthy leaf water, Throthy."


	4. Chapter 4

The night is quiet, the stars shine, and the critters of the forest sleep soundly. Well, they would be sleeping soundly, except, on this night, just outside of Metropolis, a small, dimensional rift would open. And, as one might assume to be the case, dimensional rifts come neither quietly nor calmly. It starts with the animals sensing wrongness in the air, they immediately flee, each braying loudly, or as loudly as they could given their species, and attempting to flee as though Hell itself is opening behind them. The wind picks up, a sudden gale where there had previously been none. The very air seems to panic, whipping this way and that, shaking trees and ripping up dirt, as though in an attempt to reject what is coming. A small, black point appears, untroubled by the chaos around it. This point suddenly, and irrevocably, sunders space and time with terrible energy and a great crack. Inky blackness spills from within, a shriek akin to the tortured wails of a thousand damned souls splits through the forest.

Or one distraught teenager.

A black figure flies through the great rent in space and time, screaming in terror and spilling to the ground below, landing ungracefully. This form lay still for some time, quiet sobbing echoing through the great, empty forest, all wildlife long since gone, the wind long since dead. Over time, the sobs gradually subside. The pitch black form uncurls from its fetal position slowly, with great care. It stands from the small crater and cast a glimmering, tearful eye in all directions, settling on the great lights of the big city, sparkling even in the night.

"…The spell worked…" the figure just manages with a strained voice. The terrorized screams did little for its vocal cords.

The figure watches the city for a time, still as stone as the sounds of the forest slowly return. Then, it walks.

WWWWWW

Surrounded by millions, still alone. But this time, by choice, so it is an improvement, however slim. They speak the language of her mother here, but she cannot trust them. Walking through the great center of this city, Metropolis, she encountered enough to know that trust is hard to come by. No one talks here, they just keep walking. They act as though no one else exists, and it is a blessing. No one looks twice at her in this place. She needs anonymity right now; she's too unstable to be out among them. They taught her emotional control for a good reason, it seems. But finding a quiet place in this city for meditation is impossible, so she moves. The forest, the city, the suburbs, she never quite finds a place to call her own. She sleeps in the forest, there are enough scraps for food, and a stream provides for water, but she spends her day in the city. Watching people, learning customs, studying, reading… it pays to be prepared. But, she has no one to support her and she has a heavy burden to bear.

Two years are all she has. Two years until this world is consumed by her father.

Her mother had been so sure that there was someone here that could slow her father down. For what other reason would she support this course? This place over any other? There is always a reason in everything, coming here is her mother's attempt to save her by finding others to help him. She mentioned something about great heroes that might help her. And great villains that might prepare her.

She would have to study more; she's yet to find any.

WWWWWW

A week came and went, good riddance. Adaptation is proving more difficult than she expected, but not impossible, not for her. They always claimed that she is a prodigy. Proving them right… stings, but she pays no attention to the feeling. They are far from her now, dismissing their existence would be the largest insult that she could feasibly do.

Apparently, their currency is paper, or appears to be paper. It doesn't feel quite like paper. Regardless, she needs it for her new clothes. Some people, the strange ones that notice, started to ask questions about her cloak. How irritating, why can't they just ignore her like the rest do? So she needed money, therefore she found it. It is remarkable just how much she can find. Sure, it came mostly from the detritus of society that congregate like rats in the alleys, but no one else notices them. Now, she wears perfectly average clothes, she eats healthy food, and her forest bed has been supplanted by a 'sleeping bag'. Stealing is distasteful to her, but necessary. She is preparing to save their entire world, surely they would appreciate that? At first, she hesitated to even be in the company of such people, but her fear of them passed quickly. She would have to fight more powerful foes in the future.

So now… she spends most of her time in a 'café' or a library, though today she is in a café. She can easily view and study everyone that passes by yet they never notice her. To them, she's just an average teenager. Like it should be.

"Hey look! It's Superman!" someone shouts from outside.

A blue streak flashes past.

What? What is this? Superman? She's not heard of him, yet. Though apparently, she's going to get a crash course. Everyone crowds the windows, and they start speaking amongst themselves, quite loudly, all about this Superman. She listens in, soaking in the information spilling from loose lips. Few facts, just awe. Almost useless, except for what can be derived from the scenario before her.

From the name, and the way that their eyes trail after the blue streak, it's easy to assume that 'Superman' must be one of their heroes, specifically one that can fly. The tones in their conversations convey admiration and awe and their eyes give away their target. A simple matter.

No one is looking at her, they are all too interested in the blue streak that has long since passed beyond sight. Fools.

She whispers, "Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

She floats up and passes through the ceiling. No one notices. She ends up on the roof, and she ends her spell, landing lightly on the roof. She can just make out the two forms, very distant. They both wear the same clothing, or the differences are too small to be noticed. Very distant, difficult to read, impossible to sense… non magical? Strange. The forms move incredibly fast. Energy fire of some sort is exchanged, massive blows that send the other flying. Fascinating, are these the beings that her mother spoke of? She moves, speaking her spell clearly, she achieves a higher and closer vantage point.

How remarkable. Up close, the force and power they have is clear, though not magical in nature. Her father would likely annihilate them, but they are impressive nonetheless. One is pale and sickly, or so it seems, the other cuts a far more dignified figure, but in their shared rage they are doing a rather large amount of collateral damage. Twins, perhaps? Perhaps.

For all their might, they might know someone magical? Power attracts the powerful, it is only logical. Maybe one or the other might know someone that might be able to teach her? She knows much, but more is always better.

The fight rages in the air. More than a few buildings are destroyed utterly by the pair. She wonders which the 'hero' is and which the 'villain' is. They are similar and they are acting similarly. From the small glimpse she received through the café windows, she cannot even be sure which the others indicated is Superman. She is thankful that the fight seems to rage away from her structure, moving might reveal her presence.

Hmm… she wonders why the people of this city put up with their 'hero', whichever he might be. He doesn't seem to be even trying to _not_ throw the other through buildings, as both seem happy to do so… oh look, something new. They are flying directly upwards, fighting as they do so. At least they won't further damage the city.

And… a black streak… she doesn't recognize it. Far in the sky, trailing a line of… clouds? It passes just by the fight, or perhaps over or under it. They are fighting far above her, her perspective is skewed. One pushes the other far away and chases after the black streak, catching up to it with ease. Though the other quickly recovers and is right on the first's heels. Whatever happens, she cannot see, but the one at the black streak turns about and collides with the other, both tumbling to the ground, clinging to each other. She flies closer to their most probable landing site.

From yet another structure, she surveys the small crater in the concrete. One is standing, the dignified one, while the pale, sickly man is on the ground, desperately gasping for air as a small, blue… rock sits on his chest.

…

A rock? Truly? He is beaten by a rock, this mighty combatant?

If such an individual could be beaten by a small rock, what chance does she have against her father?

No! No fear, that lets _him_ in.

No fear. No fear. No fear.

Repetition seals the thought in her mind, though poorly.

No fear.

As the black streak descends, she leaves. As though she had never been there, nothing remains of her presence.

WWWWWW

Damn! How could she think she might be safe for even an instant! A demonic presence, it had to be! She could feel it. The power, far away. Across the city, and it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared. She can't track it unless it actively uses its powers, unless she gets closer. She's not quite as good at sensing demons as she should be, she's had little practice. It's the very first thing she'll need to learn, one of the many things she'll need to learn.

To avoid detection by this demon, she takes a bus from the edge of the suburbs to the city, but it isn't accurate enough for her to use. If she can feel it, it can feel her. She is, quite unfortunately, half of her father. If she can only feel the demon when it is using its power, it is possible that the demon is skilled enough to sense her regardless. That's unlikely though, aside from the extraordinarily powerful ones, most demons are stupid… blindingly stupid. As in, get a headache from thinking stupid. She feels comfortable in her anonymity from the demon.

She gets off the bus and she moves for a cab. She will chase this signature down to the best of her ability. The cab driver wants an actual address, as he doesn't take general directions well. Thankfully, she has a map, and a vague sense of where to go. Ballpark destination, at the very best, but close enough for her to sense the demon again should it use its power.

There! Again, the demon uses its power. It hasn't moved, good. Easy to triangulate.

At first, the journey is simple. Easy. The cab driver has no more complaints about her or her directions, good. But that's the easy part, it becomes difficult when the police block off the road. The cab driver curses for her, but the detour is blocked with traffic. She pays for the trip thus far, and gets out to walk the rest of the way. Or fly. It's difficult to fly in the close confines of the alleys, but they provide great cover for her. There! Again! The demon uses its power!

Wait. The reason the road is blocked. She looks into the distance, she doesn't recognize the building but she does recognize the man floating in front of it. Her studies have turned up much on the man and his associates, the heroes. The Justice League, the world over, hundreds of heroes. For the first time in the three weeks she's been on this planet, she feels hope for the future. But… someone, through the door! A man, carrying another. The man that was injured last week on the back of a stranger, the garb of a police officer or guard, but clearly in the wrong if Superman's presence is anything to tell by.

But she has to go, has to move! Superman can handle this, and apparently any threat, excepting her father. But there is a demon across the city. Demons are her area of expertise. Well, maybe not. But she needs experience with demons, and from what she can gather, few of the locals even recognize their existence. This 'Satan' of theirs doesn't seem to threaten their world very often, or very obviously, depending on your viewpoint.

She crosses into an alley, she beings her spell and flies as fast as she is able in the direction of the demon. She hears a fight erupt behind her, likely a continuation of the fight from last week. Hopefully, there is another blue rock nearby that could be used to subdue the mad one. Bizarro, she recalls. Her research didn't bring up much on him, beyond his name and the very obvious. The rest is hidden, classified by their governments to avoid frightening the populace.

She flies over the ground and over the few buildings in her way, the manner in which this city had been built so long ago has many of these alleys lining up for many, many block at a time. She could cross the city in one flight, if she finds a long one. Of course, she has to land and walk across the streets to avoid being seen during flight, but that is only a small obstacle. So many people means a large number of possible witnesses, and it is unlikely that any would positively identify her, but anything she can do to reduce the risk of being seen is paramount. Her flight eats up the miles to her goal, it's not a straight shot there, though it's close.

Again! The demon! It's flaunting its power, it has to be. What else could it be doing? Using it on people, perhaps? She might be stumbling onto a fight between the heroes and the demon. There are more heroes in the city than just Superman, though he is the most well-known. Normal heroes couldn't handle a demon, she might have to step in.

The demon is very close. She flies upwards and alights on a building, only for a flash of demon magic to immediately attract her attention. Three blocks over, a high rise explodes in flame. She flies towards the disturbance, but a figure stumbles through the flame, starts falling. Surprisingly, he doesn't scream. He certainly shouts in surprise and perhaps a bit of fear, but he's not screaming that blood curdling shriek that he should be screaming. And she knows why. She feels him preparing demon magic to save his life; the shortened distance has heightened her accuracy. The 'man' is a demon in disguise. Clearly. She can feel it.

But, an instant before the demon could save itself, a flying woman catches him. Hawkwoman, she believes. She learned much on many of the heroes and villains of this world. Their 'Wikipedia' is a source of great knowledge; it is a global repository of almost everything that this planet comprehends. Of course, she could not learn everything from just the one source, so she turned to the great digital forums of their 'Internet', much was speculation, but even speculation has its place. Speculation can provide a guide on how the powers and weaknesses of heroes and villains work, the denizens of the great forum '4chan' are of great intelligence. Or, at least, the more idiotic ones are quickly shunned, it _is_ a _public_ forum after all. However, the 'Oldfags' have much knowledge and wisdom. The conclusions they have drawn on many heroes are very logical, they may not be true, but they are just about as accurate as one can be with only observation and no experiments.

A cacophony of noise fills the air. Police, firefighters, and several more heroes surround the area and to put out the blaze. How had it started? Demon magic, almost certainly. She can feel a small taint in the blaze… And from what she can see from above, the heroes do not suspect the demon of any malicious intent. How could they? He looks and acts like a normal man. They would have to have magical senses to properly detect the being. And the demon, in a rare show of intelligence, actually seems to be further convincing them of its human nature. Strange. This must be a powerful demon, only the powerful ones are intelligent in any way. Or, rather, only the intelligent ones live long enough to acquire true power.

But… with the heroes' presence, she can do nothing. Her accusations would not be taken seriously. They would dismiss her as a child, damn. And recklessly charging in to attack the demon would have worse consequences, make her appear the villain. Damn. She can't get closer without being spotted, she can't attack from this far away, and she can't reveal herself yet… She'll have to wait until the demon is alone, and then take care of it. Interrogate it.

Unfortunately, tracking the demon with her magic would more than likely reveal her presence. Damn. She would have to track it personally, the hard way. She risked detection enough just by coming over to this building. If the demon isn't aware of her presence, and she's relatively sure that it isn't, then even the act of flying down would reveal her. In the midst of fire and falling, the odds of it having the clarity to sense her are remote. But now, calm and collected, sitting in the back compartment of an ambulance? It would sense her immediately. Damn. She would either have to wait until the demon left the area, in which case she would lose it utterly, or she could get down there now, non-magically. It's the only chance she has, so she goes for it. Yet, unfortunately, as she tries the door to the stairwell, it's locked. Damn.

So close, and she lost the demon. Not yet, she can still see it below her, but there's no way for her to get at the demon without it noticing. She would need surprise, if the demon is as powerful as she infers. Lock it in a trap before interrogation, once she got her magical grip on the demon… Damn. She's so inexperienced, she curses herself. She has no confidence in her power over the demon. She has little confidence in her tactics. And, just like that, the little hope that had been bubbling in her chest ever since she had heard of the Justice League starts to slip away.

She inhales, exhales, she releases the frustration as she had been taught. She resigns herself to watch the demon, beyond caring at this point. It does seem to enjoy talking, if from what she can see is any indication. Several men crowd around him as well as a few heroes. Talking, talking, talking, that's all that's happening. They get bored of him at some point, leave, but more replace them. Is it whispering dark words into their ears? Perhaps. Damn. But any influences the demon weaves will end with its death or banishment. Eventually, over the course of an hour or so, the demon leaves with a man, not a demon. Perhaps a thrall? Perhaps.

They seem to just walk off into the distance. The very moment they're out of sight, however, she loses them. Damn her caution. But it's necessary. She doesn't want to die, not before she can kill her father. She waits an hour or more, just to be safe. Hopefully the demon left the area properly and didn't just enter a nearby building out of her sight. That would be extremely counterproductive. At least she manages to catch up on her meditation. And, it provides some practice for meditating in a loud environment, something that she foresees to be utterly necessary given the state of this city.

She walks to the edge of the building, the edge that faces the nearest alley, and speaks her spell, "Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

She falls slowly to the ground and immediately knocks the vagrant that dares to glance at her as though she were a helpless victim out. She's not, helpless that is. Most certainly a victim of circumstance or birth, however.

She goes through the vagrant's clothing and box, holding her nose closed in disgust from the, uh, 'aroma' spilling off of him. She finds almost twenty dollars, more than enough to get something to calm her nerves. She wonders how many people the man hurt to get this money, or if he had begged for it. Coward. Taking from others or sponging off of their generosity, and yet there's nothing wrong with this man. He has all of his limbs, he is not, or rather was not, injured, and she honestly doubts that he is ill mentally. Craven dog. He could work for money.

She inhales, exhales. Anger. That's not good. She'll need to clear her head. Anger is extremely negative for her temperament, above and beyond any other person's temper. Her anger, and all negative emotions, forces her demonic half to the fore. While she hasn't personally met her demon half, she knows enough to infer that she's a total bitch.

She'll have to meditate. Preferably soon. Breathing exercises only hold off the demon within for so long. The forest is too far away, the police most likely still have the way out of town cordoned off. Where else, in a city, would she find a moment of calm? The tops of buildings don't quite work, she had no choice earlier, but now she does. A park, perhaps? Is there one nearby?

Had she seen one from the roof? No… she didn't.

Then again, she doesn't have to think about it. She finds a map of the city among the meager possessions of the vagrant. Probably taken from some tourist he had mugged. All she needs is the nearest intersection, and she knows exactly where to go.

And, voila, three blocks over, and seven up, if she's reading this correctly.

The frustration that this horrible day has caused, the stress, and the fact that she's not been having restful, non-nightmarish sleep for several days now is surely what caused her falling asleep during meditation. It could have happened to anyone.

WWWWWW

Demon magic! The sense forces her awake, it's so close, so cold. She struggles with waking fully, she's quite groggy. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, and the fact that she had irritates her. In the park of all things, the risk she took! The kind of things that happens at night in metropolitan parks boggles the mind.

She forces herself to calm, to get over the thoughts. She could be shocked later, when there isn't a demon a few feet from her at the most. There's demonry afoot, and she has to deal with it.

She barely manages to stand, she can only just force her eyes open, her back is sore, and she can't quite think just yet. She feels horrible, but she can't let that hold her back. When she will fight, _when she will defeat_, her father, she would be more than just groggy or tired, she'll be terrified and dying. Get. Over. It.

Forcing her body to abide by her will, she looks towards the demon magic. She only sees the side of a copse of trees. Why had she slept there? She had chosen the place to meditate… and her activities caught up with her. How embarrassing, how childish. Never again. She will have to learn how to leap from sleep into a battle at a moment's notice, it will more than likely happen to her eventually. AGAIN.

She stumbles through the trees, cursing their very existence. It had been their sound blocking capabilities, that is why she had chosen the place to meditate. Yet the very quiet also lulled her to sleep, how irritating.

Once through the trees, she can see the demon, she can feel the foul thing's energies. At this range, it's obvious to tell. She had been awoken from its usage of magic, but she can tell passively at this close distance.

She walks closer, holding her own demonic side tightly to her chest, so to speak. It wouldn't do to be detected now. With a half human body, it's reasonable to assume that she might be able to hide it, somewhat. Somewhat.

The demon is speaking with a woman, and a child. She's too far to hear, and moving too slowly to help if something goes horribly wrong, as it will most likely happen. Damn! It teleported! Where is it now?

She stifles a gasp. It's right in front of her. A tree between her and the family, she had been aiming to use it as some cover. But the demon is already using it, as it looks on the family it probably just manipulated. It's not looking at her though, a positive. She might just have the drop on it…

She strengthens her heart, damn her weakness!

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

Damn! Her hold is weak, why is she so weak? Always weak. Never strong enough.

…

But the demon makes no move to get free, how strange. The dumb ones would immediately start thrashing against their confinement, only the smart ones would be curious enough to stay, and one such as that could easily rend her meager hold apart.

"Oh dear," the demon mutters, damnable thing has an accent for some reason, "I know I've felt magic like this before, but where?"

Control, control, control, "Why are you here?" good, no inflection, let the beast think her strong, she can bluff her way out of this yet, and kill it while it's distracted. But for now; information is paramount! Her father isn't to come for another two years, why is this one early?

"Sneaking up on an old man? For shame, young lady." Trying to disguise himself as human? How foolish. She is more than perceptive enough to notice his essence… and a real human would be upset, not chastising her, more evidence, if she needed any.

Be strong, "Now, or I'll crush you, demon." Good, right amount of hostility.

But, grr, she can feel that grin through her grip!

"Well, I simply cannot argue with that tone, my dear." Bastard, "Throthdar the Helpless," Ha! Helpless, indeed. She is offended at the notion, "At your service. I would bow, but, as you can plainly see, I seem a touch tied up at the moment." It has the nerve to laugh at her!

Put the pressure on, "I didn't ask for an introduction," literally now, _squeeze_… "_Why_ are you here?"

"Why, I was merely enjoying a walk through this city on a pleasant afternoon, letting off some stress with some healthy exercise." Talking to his back is getting irritating for her, she rotates him about to face her, and she immediately regrets the decision upon seeing the thing's ugly smirk, "Surely you were up to much the same, Ms. Roth?" she ignores the demon's using her name, she is likely known well in the demon planes, "Being the Portal must get you uptight as well, no?" she ups the pressure, rat bastard thinks it can taunt her? She'll show it.

But the demon won't _shut up_, "Dear Rachel, while I appreciate our attempts to straighten my back, might I suggest a more civilized discussion?" that damn grin!

Be strong, be strong, let it think there's way out, "Not until you tell me the truth. Did my Father send you? Has he not hurt me enough?"

Those books on interrogation are certainly paying off, now that she thinks about it.

With that irritating, arrogant smirk, it says, "I can assure you that your _little father _didn't send me, my dear. I can barely stand the _rat bastard_. I've been here for some thousands of years of my own volition." Damn thing is taunting her! HER! Insulting her monstrously destructive father, like he isn't the cause of all the evils in her life is just_… infuriating_!

Calm, calm, calm, "And why should I believe you?"

"My dear, adorable, little cousin in demonhood," bastard! "Surely you know the difference between those ruffians of Trigon's and Satan's A-class gents. I'm sure the monks taught you that, at least." She freezes at the words, enough for the demon to teleport right out of her grip!

Behind her!

She swivels, beginning her mantra, "Azarath- urk!" only to be cut off by the demon! It shoves something in her mouth! It's sweet, but infuriating!

And then, it goes in for the kill! Hand to hand combat? She hadn't learned this!

It wraps its hands around her neck, strangling her!

"My adorable little cousin!" the hands are gentle. What is this? Some secret technique for murder? "You should know when you can arrogantly taunt your opponents and when you should take them with one, huge blast right at the beginning. But that's okay! You're just learning."

Bastard has the gall to lecture her on fighting tactics just before it kills her?

"Come with me, we'll see about getting you an education!"

…

…what?

"And hopefully a new wardrobe! What is this? Jeans? No, no, no, no; this simply isn't fit for a lady."

…WHAT?

WWWWWW

She met the rare combination of dumb and powerful demon. Who knew such a thing existed? She despises the things presence, truth be told. But it had been a simple matter to ascertain the truth. The demon is correct, there is a difference between the feel of Trigon's and Satan's demons. By comparing her inner half and 'Throthdar', she notices the difference almost immediately. Rather like the 1% or whatever difference between humans and chimpanzees, that 1% makes a huge difference.

He has been dragging her along since they met, unfortunately. Against her will. And, the bastard locked the lollipop in her mouth with some magic! How screwed up is that?

Firstly, he took her to a clothing store, very high end. Again, against her will. Bastard forced her into a long dress, bought half the store, and had it shipped over to his apartment, 'just for her'. 'Only the best for my little cousin' he said. Did she get an opinion? No. because he is a demon, and all demons are terrible people, regardless of their personalities.

Even if she finds his constant chatter and overly concerned nature mildly, MILDLY, endearing…

Then, he took her to an apparently major university and tried to get her enrolled! Who just does that? Demons, that's who. And despite the best efforts of 'Throthdar', she wasn't accepted, which honestly stung a bit. She knows that she is smarter than most anyone the university could boast about. Besides, from what she's read about the universities on this planet, they're supposed to be morally corrupt, money grubbing scum bags, the lot of them. Why wouldn't they accept an additional source of income? It honestly confuses her.

So then, in some misguided attempt to protest, 'Throthdar' decides to protest the decision by teaching a most likely warped version of their history on the steps of the university. He 'taught' something about a 'Bloody Mary', Reformations and Counter-Reformations, and a Church. Unsurprisingly, he gathers a large crowd of ignorant college students and a few of their professors, demons are known for their dark charisma… or maybe, that's just a side effect of the mortal shell? From his ramblings, and they were most certainly ramblings, it seems that he is inhabiting the shell of a dead man, and gains some of his attributes.

So she had to sit there, enjoying a lollipop against her will, as the deadly demon coerced a crowd into accepting his opinion, in a very expensive, richly embroidered dress. She's fourteen! She shouldn't be wearing these kinds of dresses! Ignore the fact that, for most of her life thus far, she exclusively wore robes because robes are entirely different than expensive dresses. For one, if she tore a robe it didn't cost thousands of dollars. Or however much this dress cost, she hadn't been paying attention, she was too focused on getting the infernal lollipop out of her mouth at the time.

Throthdar had asked for questions, and upon receiving some, decided to leave. Apparently, he doesn't like questions, or maybe he just noticed the filthy professors eyeing him from the back like sharks eyeing a separate but equal shark with which to brutalize some poor college student's psyche. Terrible people, college professors.

Throthdar picked her up and pushed her along, away from the crowd.

"Come now, Rachel." He had said, "Let's go and see the Justice League Headquarters next, unless you have something that needs doing?"

Behind the still locked, at the time, lollipop, she could only glare at the demon, hoping the expression alone would fully encompass her desire to brutalize him.

He didn't notice though, "Well then, the Justice League awaits!"

So they wandered off and found a taxi, though he allowed her to finally remove the damn lollipop. That would have been nice of him had he not been the demon to put it there in the first place. She threw it on the ground in anger and spite.

He smirked at her, "Don't you like sweets, Rachel?"

She glared, an unholy glare that could melt steel, "I'd rather eat a lemon right now." Ha! There, the exact opposite of sweetness!

And then the cab pulled up, and he opened the door, held it. As though he were some mockery of a gentleman.

"You know, I rather thought that you'd have left me by now." He said.

And, in an idiotic moment of weakness brought on by the collapse of her emotional support structure, she had said, "Even spending time with a demon is better than being alone."

Ugh, how stupid! But he had the gall to say, "Well, Ms. Roth, I must say that I've found your company to be quite pleasant as well." The cheeky bastard.

So then they went to the Justice League HQ, which brings us to the present. They step out of the cab and behold the glory that is the Justice League Headquarters' front lawn.

Why is he even doing this? Dragging her along from place to place. They're at the Justice League's headquarters! It would be simplicity itself to oust him for the malign force that he is. If they even believe her… And Throthdar had been so nice to her… No! He's a demon, good only for ruin.

But that hardly means that she has to turn him in to the Justice League, she could very well just do it herself later on… If she can, she doubts her ability to do so. Throthdar had shown some skill in magic, some quite beyond her just yet. She could beat him, she knows, but she would have to give up something very precious of hers to acquire the power. Namely, her humanity.

And then telling Throthdar of her indifference to architecture made him promise her a spell book. Is he trying to bribe her? Well… to be honest, it's kind of working. New clothes, trying to help her education, even if ultimately unfruitful (and wasteful, considering her limited time), and then giving her a spell book? That's… all she needs to be persuaded, the promise of further power to assure her own life and the destruction of her father.

He takes her by the hand and they cross the green. Bastard, thinking he can just hold her hand like that, a demon. She wrenches her hand away with a glare, but Throthdar just grins. So infuriating!

So once they get over there, he just knocks on the door as though it isn't a building full of heroes and he isn't also a demon inhabiting human flesh.

And someone speaks up from behind them, "Wh-what are you doing?"

And this person turns out to be world renowned Flash. A hero, known for his super speed. Utterly useless against Trigon's magic, of course, but he's still quite impressive.

At first.

She's… never seen someone so completely and utterly talked down to, so completely guided and directed through a conversation, so utterly useless at existence. Throthdar twists and turns his words and then suddenly they're inside the most secure building on the planet. Her previous mild awe completely dies in her heart, and she despises Throthdar slightly more because of it. And… it is over tea. Tea got them in. How dumb is that?

…

How dumb is Flash?

She is so… mildly repulsed that she tries to hide behind Throthdar, it doesn't really work, but she doesn't have to interact with Flash as much as she fears.

And then they have a tour of the headquarters. She can't quite take enough in, she looks everywhere she can. It's rather bland, she notices, but it's still remarkable. _Very_ few non-heroes have set foot in here. This is _the _hall of power for the entire world! This is the place where every decision affects the world! Like the President of the United States' office, except with superpowers. It's also not really a tour of the headquarters; they go on a clear linear route to wherever they're going. Throthdar distracts the idiotic hero with words, of all things. Not even impressive words or persuasive words, just a vast quantity of words. He has the reflexes to dodge obstacles while running at the speed of light, yet he can barely follow one demon's rambling speech? Even she could keep up, she just chooses not to! It's boring, listening to the demon.

Eventually, through more winding yet bland corridors, they enter a room. _The_ room, if her eyes are right. Where things actually go down, where the metaphorical magic happens. Where Batman and Hawkwoman and Robin are all standing and looking at her oh no what if they see her but they're looking at her and they're heroes and they're so cool and strong and powerful and wise but what if they suspect why would they suspect just be calm be calm be calm be calm.

She manages an impassive face. She forces the terror down. The awe too, but that's harder. She's unaccustomed to the emotion. Finally, real heroes. Batman has a reputation for genius… he'll be more impressive than Flash, surely.

Batman manages to intimidate Flash just about instantly, and Flash somehow conjures up the basic intelligence to realize that they are not allowed in the building. While Flash is verbally assaulted by Batman, Throthdar maintains a small grin, seemingly polite but she can see the maliciousness, the enjoyment in Flash's discomfort. Admittedly, she too achieves some manner of satisfaction at seeing the inferior fool being torn to shreds, metaphorically, by the intelligent superior. Though, she has the decency to not smile at it.

Flash defends himself, rather ineptly, and both Batman and Flash know it. In fact, everyone knows it. This lasts for a minute or so, until Throthdar speaks up. His defense is as transparent as it is flimsy, yet he delivers it with confidence born of thousands of years of experience. Between the two, Flash could say that the sky is blue and Throthdar could say that it is pink, and a listener would sooner believe Throthdar.

Walking into the hero equivalent of the Pentagon to invite some of the heroes over for tea? Preposterous, yet Throthdar tells them so. And then they agree to meeting for tea. Throthdar also has the decency to point out the creepy little boy staring at her from the shadows.

Well. A target. She has… so very, very much frustration to vent, why not shout at a little pre-teen?

"What are you staring at?" no venom yet, she has to properly save that for a scathing remark once she learns something personal in the next few moments.

"You."

What kind of response is that? Insolent, impudent little boy. Hmm, now seems a good time for that scathing remark. Admittedly, she had been tempted into using it early, but that hardly matters. She studied heroes and the subject of Batman and his sidekick most certainly came up. A simple response to such a young boy's idiocy would to poke roughly at his likely massive ego. Something about riding on Batman's coattails, perhaps? That seems like it would be particularly effective. Most young heroes and sidekicks become irritated when compared to their elders.

But then Batman interrupts her casual devastation of a sidekick's ego and Throthdar drags her away from the unwilling, unwitting target of her massive amount of rage. This disruption, however, does bring the realization that the heroes accepted the invitation. What kind of hero accepts tea from a total stranger? Hawkwoman 'saved' Throthdar earlier in the day, but the rest weren't involved.

Once in the hall, Throthdar asks, "Now, young Rachel, would you like to come along as well?"

Momentarily startled, she considers refusing the offer out of hand. However, she also considers the implications. She would deny the offer, but… leaving a demon alone with four non-magical heroes and one sidekick? That is a recipe for terribly destruction and monumental idiocy on her part. So, she has to accept… To keep an eye on the demon. She silently denies that she might even slightly enjoy the demon's presence. Bastard.

"I… accept the invitation." There, nice and formal Just like mother taught her.

But then, to make sure that the demon doesn't get any different ideas, she says, "I have nothing better to do anyway."

He pouts.

WWWWWW

So the two of them wander over to wherever Throthdar happens to be staying. They don't take a cab because Throthdar gasps and points out his apartment once they leave the Justice League Headquarters, as though shocked he hadn't noticed its proximity. They walk over and then ride an elevator up quite a few floors. Not having much experience with elevators doesn't deter her, she's quite familiar with the concept of levitation. This one just happens to be non-magical, and capable of failing at any instant, but she tries to remain calm. Even if she doesn't trust it.

Throthdar fumbles about in his jacket for a bit before producing a set of keys. Then he fumbles about through the keys until he finds the correct one. Why does he have so many keys? From his ramblings, a car and an apartment, but there are many more than just two. He is thousands of years old, or so he claims, only the demon probably knows what half of them go to.

Eventually, though, they do manage to enter the apartment. The first thing that she notices is the other occupant. Oh, what is his name? Surely, Throthdar had mentioned it at least a few dozen times.

The man, and it is a man, no sign of demonic taint, has his back to them and is going through or trying to pull something out of a cardboard box. She had seen many such boxes, most often as the homes of the poor and downtrodden. They are used for packaging? How strange. And it smells in here, of what she can't quite place, but the odor is… prevalent.

"Hey, Throthdar!" the man shouts in greeting, still not turning to regard them, "C'mere and help me with this thing! Got a monster of a new PC, this thing could run the federal government, it's so sweet!" he continues, though mumbled, "Cost a pretty penny too, come to think of it… Day of delivery cost a lot too, but who cares?" the man seems to be extraordinarily excited.

A 'PC'? Personal computer? And an excellent one? She had been under the assumption that they are all similar. She used some of them at the local library and they had all been similar. He purchased one for his own use? Clever of the little man, such a font of knowledge should be acquired as soon as possible. She feels a moderate, but not overwhelming, desire to commune with the wise Oldfags once more, their insight having proved valuable earlier in the week. She hopes to one day join their illustrious number and dispense wisdom as she can, as they so do.

Throthdar speaks, "Quite nice to see you again, Eric, might I introduce a cousin of mine?" again with the cousin nonsense, "Ms. Roth, this is Eric Bones, a close personal friend of mine."

The man refuses to look up and greet her properly, how uncouth.

"Yeah, hey, nice t'meetcha kid. I'ma little busy here for hellos. Bastard has to weight four hundred pounds."

She stares in moderate astonishment as the man tries and fails to drag the object out of its box.

"It's part of his charm, my dear." Throthdar comments to her.

Mildly irritated by Eric's stubborn refusal to even acknowledge her presence, she decides to demand attention through a rather simple incantation. If a normal person is not interesting enough for his attention, perhaps a magical person would be? Not that she needs his validation, or anything…

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos." She drags the PC from its shell and places it on the desk that had been cleared for its presence.

Finally, he looks up and acknowledges her presence. She inspects him as he inspects her. Blue eyes with a flash of intelligence, unkempt blond hair, mildly irritated yet mildly amused. Dressed in slacks and a short sleeve T-shirt. Bandaged hands. Really, there's little remarkable about him. He could probably blend in almost anywhere.

A grin, a smirk, yet another person that finds her demeanor endearing! She's sick of it!

"Jeez kid, don't be so rough with the hardware." He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the machine, "That's probably worth more than you'll ever make in a year." He sighs, "But, I'm probably sounding like an ass right now. Nice to meet you," he mimes shaking hands, though they are too far away to shake, "Yadda, yadda, yadda, Throthdar, you're a dick." He points at Throthdar, irritated. But over what? "Turns out the windows don't open, and I spent like three hours working that thing down the dispose-all." His tone turns torturous, as though greatly saddened and offended, "You never appreciate the things I do for you! I cut myself a few times shredding it up, just so it would fit!" he holds up his bandaged hand.

Throthdar begins to defend himself, but Eric cuts him off. The first person she's seen that can stop the chatterbox.

He groans theatrically over Throthdar, "Then I had to clean the mess. Bleach and lemon Pledge, everywhere! I'll be smelling that crap in my dreams, _against my will_!" she smiles, that sounds so much like what she had been thinking earlier, "You, my friend, unintentionally caused the rape of my nose. I demand recompense."

But Eric notices her smile, "Like the dirty humor kid?" Not particularly, "I know I did at your age, what are yah? Fourteen?"

Remarkably accurate, "Correct."

"Hehe," the man giggles, "I knew it. I'm never wrong." She finds the claim doubtful.

Throthdar, finally over the minor emotional trauma he just sustained at the hands of his friend, clears his throat, "Eric, while it's nice to see you getting along well with Rachel, please don't use such language around her." What? She's had a demon father hanging over her head since she was born, she can handle a curse word! They're not even curse words that have an actual, negative effect on the target!

"Fine, mom. I'll try not to scare Rachel off." Wow, how remarkable, he's not actually been serious yet. She hopes that he isn't always like this, but it seems unlikely. "If I even could, she looks tough." And just like that, she's back to moderately respecting the man. Few can look past her teenaged appearance to see the power that lurks underneath.

"And another thing," Throthdar continues, "I'm expecting guests. I've invited some of the heroes that saved me earlier over for tea."

Lying to a friend? She knows damn well that he could have saved himself. Or maybe, the man isn't aware of Throthdar's demonhood? That seems possible.

Eric's reaction is unusual; however, he appears to be off put by the information. Most would love playing host to a hero, from what she can tell.

He groans and holds his head in his hands, quite the theatrical individual, very expressive with his hands, "Aw man, I hate those guys! Always with the collateral damage!" he puts on a dumb voice, it sounds remarkable well done however, most can't mimic any voice particularly well, not even their own, "'Hey, look, a villain! Let's blow up a city block!' Bastards."

Oh, so that's where he's coming from. She can understand that. She herself witnessed the fight between Bizarro and Superman, the collateral damage was quite significant. It stands to reason that some might notice and take offence to it, or at least be wary of heroes on the off chance that they might fight a villain anywhere near them. A city block seems to be underestimating the possible damages, however.

Throthdar sighs, but Eric continues speaking, massaging his forehead, "Let's roll out the welcome mat, I suppose. But I'm not drinking any of your filthy leaf water, Throthy."

Leaf water? Tea. Eric has a distaste for tea. Not everyone can enjoy it, she supposes. It's not as though everyone in existence can enjoy the same thing. She certainly has no great fondness for the drink. A very acquired taste, but it's all the monks had to give her.

Eric grins to Throthdar, then settles his even gaze on Rachel, "She quite the conversationalist, aren't you, little Songbird?"

Oh the very nerve! She begins to point and shout at the offending being-

Throthdar interrupts, "She's more like an adorable little Raven."

Raven fumes at the betrayal! A little voice in her head says, 'it's only betrayal if there's trust', but she ignores the treasonous whispers.

Eric grins, "Yeah. Raven, I can see that."

Throthdar smiles in genuine delight, "So, _Raven_, would you like to watch something on the telly as we prepare for the other guests to arrive?"


	5. Chapter 5

While Throthdar prepares for his guests, Eric decides that he simply cannot face yet another tea party with Throthdar without something fortifying his already impressive constitution. Throthdar might be a great guy, but tea parties, and that's certainly what they are, are just boring. He puts up with them for Throthdar's sake, and Throthdar lets him do his own thing most of the time anyway.

So, instead of helping to set up the lounging area, for tea parties aren't held at the dinner table, Eric wanders over to the kitchen for a more suitable, American repast. The British drink tea at tea time and whenever-bong, yet Eric is American, therefore he cannot participate fully. It's against his very nature. He can participate in some respects, but to go the full nine yards would be anathema to him.

Throthdar gets tea, Eric gets a pop. Throthdar sprinkles butter and sweets onto his crumpets, Eric sprinkles cheese and chips onto his plate to be nuked until dangerous cheesy. In this manner, Eric can participate while still retaining all the good aspects of America. By incorporating elements of other cultures, he will retain the American spirit of the immigrant nation.

Leaning on the kitchen island while waiting for his nachos to cook, Eric has a good view of the living room. The kid, what's her name… Rachel? She looks delightfully confused, not quite sure of herself in the new environment. Of course, she's hiding it well behind an impassive face, but he can pick out the subtleties. The usual suspects of nervousness, as it were. Mild fidgeting, rubbing hands, uncomfortable in her clothes, glancing about, etc, etc. So cute. Why, he remembers his days of being a teenager. Horrible time! Bones, everywhere! Something about puberty… Ugh.

Glancing at his friend Throthdar, he finds the demon merrily whistling 'God Save the Queen' while rearranging the more comfortable furniture for the 'party'. Grinning like a lunatic, he is. Well… Grinning like Hitler would, so yeah. Scary stuff. There are some things that people simply cannot handle Like a Shoggoth, for example. Or a genuinely happy Hitler. Maybe that's why the adorable little girl is so nervous. Hmm… why does he think of her as a little girl? She's fourteen… little girl status is closer to eight than fourteen. Oh well, her fault for being so likable. And cute. And short.

Maybe he'll do something nice for her. Having to spend more than a few minutes with Throthdar can drive someone crazy… Pity is a powerful emotion. Well, not really pity. Hmm… what's he feeling? Not pity, no… strange. Empathy? Sympathy? Ugh, feelings. No thanks.

His machismo prevents him from continuing to acknowledge his emotions, so he checks on his nachos. And – BEEEP - oh hey! They're done! Great timing. Ah, that smell. Like sweet, aromatic sex. Except its food, and he's fairly certain that he doesn't have that fetish, though double checking might be in order. The plate, as unassuming as it is, is quite dangerous. Hot as molten cheese, it is. He has to lift it with his mighty hands covered in soft, dainty, female oven mitts. Oh well, what is dignity compared to nachos?

So he wanders over to the couch strategically placed in front of the television. A great couch! He almost fell asleep twice, when he was watching his stories, even! That's a quality couch, right there. Or maybe it shows Eric's dedication to staying up late to play video games. Regardless, he enjoys it. He turns the TV on and starts flipping through channels at a leisurely pace.

So, Rachel's been watching him intently ever since she heard the ringing of the microwave. How adorable! She's probably hungry for some real food! Now, if only he had the time to properly prepare a meat-bread. So he waves her over to the couch and graciously provides room for her.

She seems surprised at the comfort the couch provides. Huh. That's only a little off putting. What kind of kid hasn't sat on a couch before? She must be poor. Or sheltered. Well now he feels moderately bad, and the only solution is to share some of his world famous nachos with her. It's the least he can do! Poor thing's never seen a couch, how messed up is that?

She, quite understandably, also reacts heavily towards the nachos. He liberally douses them in some more mild hot sauce for flavoring, but the little thing acts like she's never had a little spice! She takes one small bite and has to stare at the rest of the small chip in awe. Who the hell does that?

"You never have nachos, kid?" he asks, mildly concerned but too masculine to show it.

She silently shakes her head no while slowly chewing what little she has eaten. Never had nachos? What the hell, man!? That's just…. un-American! God, he… can't even describe the horrible anguish in his black stained soul at the idea that a child (in America!) hasn't even had a nacho!

He pushes the plate closer to her and, with uncertainty, says, "Well… tuck in then."

She doesn't eat with wild abandon, but she certainly does appreciate the superior food quality she has recently discovered. Hell, he only made enough for one, and she's eating quick enough to render his quantity of nachos null. He'll have to make another plate just to last through the party! She does seem to enjoy them though, the nachos. She is absently eating one after another while gazing off into the distance… no wait, she's watching the TV.

Oh, uh… Yeah, probably not the best thing for kids to watch. So he channel surfs to find a more proper show for little girls. There's a new thing, he's seen some commercials on the cartoon channels. Oh, what's it called…?

"Oh hey, Pretty Pretty Pegasus! The pilot's out! Now _this_ is a show made for people just like you, little Raven."

He manages to catch it just as the previous show ends, so she'll get to watch the whole thing! How good of him. Hell, this might be worth a whole bottle of Jack's on the ole sin-o-meter. Even if Rachel's glare for interrupting her viewing pleasure smoldered with great fury, he withstood it for her own good. Or maybe it was his saying 'people like you', generally people don't like that… especially from him, a white man. He meant her adorable little teenager ness, not whichever race has a… grayish pallor…. Good God, it's like her skin is in gray scale. And she's got a forehead gem, is she Indian? But… doesn't that make her married? Good God, she's fourteen! Well, now he would have to reevaluate everything he knows about her and Indian people. Screw it, too boring. Too time consuming. Too much effort with no discernible gain.

Her little glare is cute too. As though she's trying to communicate with nothing but her eyes 'I despise you for thinking that this 'Pretty Pretty Pegasus' is a show made for me'. But… c'mon, she's fourteen. Eric's killed people! A fourteen-year-old's glare wouldn't hurt even if it also shot lasers. And, considering the vast quantity of meta humans on this planet, there's probably some teenagers that do shoot energy beams from their eyes. Theirs is a glare worth admiring.

So they sit in mild, companionable silence while simultaneously ignoring Throthdar. It's a bonding moment, it really is. Sure, Eric's not really paying attention to the show and… now that he notices, perhaps Rachel's paying a bit too much attention… but it's a bonding moment nonetheless! All great friendships start in some manner! And at least eight of them started in a manner similar to this most auspicious of beginnings. But, alas, through their combined consumption, the nachos are swiftly being depleted! He blames Rachel, the skinny little tart seems to have one in her hand constantly, immediately replacing the one she ate not a moment before, barely tasting the snack as she eats them. Thankfully, Lois keeps a fully stocked pantry. Cheese and chips are in ample supply. Her plates could be a bit bigger to accommodate more nachos per serving, but he can handle the cards he's been dealt. No good television channels, yet she has all the food she could stuff in her kitchen right before she goes on a trip. Strange priorities. Did they catch her on grocery day? Regardless, the nachos are fleeing this mortal coil at an alarming rate. There is only one thing that could remedy such a situation: the creation of more nachos. And so Eric stands, ready and willing to undertake this holy task. More cheese, more chips, all sacrificed before the mighty microwave to reveal that an exciting chemical reaction had taken place.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. As opposed to the fancy door bells that give a warning before they ring which in itself would be sudden, thereby making the point moot. A glance tells Eric that Throthdar is handling the door quite adequately, so he proceeds with 'Operation Nachos', name subject to change.

He pauses in front of the microwave, he glances back at Rachel. He thinks quickly, then moves over and palms the remote control.

He turns the TV off and says to a suddenly furious Rachel, "Some things you just have to keep to yourself, Raven." With a wink, for extra emphasis.

She calms… strangely quickly, with great thought and melancholy on her face. Weird. Girls are weird. Teenagers are weird. That makes Rachel double, maybe triple, weird.

DING. The best sound ever created by the mighty hand of Man. Food. They are complete, in all their triangular glory. The triangle is the most stable shape; therefore nachos are the most nutritionally balanced food possible. All glory to nachos. Today: nachos. Tomorrow: THE WORLD. This latest batch of nachos retained the molten nature of their predecessors, but has acquired a superior aspect! This aspect takes the form of freshness! And fresh nachos are mildly superior to a few minutes old nachos. And so, to protect his hand from their exothermic nature, he once again braves the frilly, female oven mitt from earlier. He retrieves the goodness from the altar of ambiguity, and moves back to his chosen couch.

Ugh. It suddenly stinks of hypocrisy in here. Seems the heroes are here, he doesn't even have to see them to know it. Though, seeing them helps, especially in a fight. It's not as though he could avoid the sight, given their propensity for extraordinarily garish colors. Bright red Flash, the Hawk couple has their giant fucking wings with golden tops and green pants, as though they've color coordinated, and then there's a little boy rounding out the group with a red shirt. At least it's a dark red shirt, though given the propensity for those with red shirts to die… The only reasonably dressed one is Batman… that's a lie, he's not reasonably dressed. None of them are; this is a tea party. You don't show up to tea parties in all black combat armor with a mask, or naked arms with golden embellishments and a mask, or a cape with a mask. Damn them all, damn Throthdar. They're just so unreasonable! Hell, Throthdar is probably seething inside at their terribly inappropriate dress, but he's far too polite to tell them that. Throthdar is dressed up in his every day, same outfit best! He could go to the highest class soirees in that! And they're wearing nothing appropriate! Ugh.

At least he's got Rachel, she seems to have a good head on her shoulders. Surely she'll understand his misgivings about the idiocies of heroes?

But, oh God… she's star struck. It's hard to tell, but Eric can. He breaks into prisons for a living, he can tell. Once he accidentally impersonated a guard that was slotted for the annual psychological evaluation that evening. Horribly awkward for all involved.

He actually figured that at least half of them wouldn't bother to appear at the door. He thought that they'd take some route like flying up to the unopening windows or running up the side of the building or just kind of being in a shadowed corner when no one was looking. Seems he figured incorrectly. Well, there goes his record. Two for three today for wild, inaccurate guesses that turn out to be spot on. That's at least twice as good as professional baseball players. Maybe he should think about trying out for a team.

So Batman, paragon of politeness, propriety, and civility, begins with the declaration that, "This is Lois Lane's apartment."

Well, shit. Batman breaks open the can of worms that is a defensive Throthdar early… how'd he know whose apartment this is? This isn't within the city limits of Gotham. You can only be omniscient within certain bounds, Batman! Well, now he's spoiled Eric's appetite with the bile that is mild displeasure.

At least Throthdar is a demon that can count on one hand the number of times he's been outwitted. He ought to have the ability to throw Batman off the scent of squatters.

"Why, we're house sitting for her!" great defense, Throthdar, that'll _really_ send them reeling, "Lois is a dear old friend of mine, but I'm sure you don't want to hear this old chap prattle on about himself; meet my good friend Eric!"

Oh wonderful: multiple sets of eyes on him, most of them belonging to heroes. Why, the last time he had this many eyes on him, he was… hell, come to think of it, it was probably when he broke out of that prison the other day. And that turned out swell! No longer nervous, Eric rallies his mighty intelligence to formulate a proper response to this most uncomfortable of situations. Or rather, he cheats and let's his power do most of the work.

See, Shatter isn't just materials. Shatter works with events, conversations, people… He doesn't see the world as most people do, where other people see concrete and steel, he sees fault lines. A little crack, a weak point, a push and it's gone and over. Like the engineering diagram of a structure, except with excessive material strength and wear detail, weight distribution, aging materials, improperly bolted supports, structural integrity frequencies, the works. Hell, the plate in his hand is alight with little bright lines, showing the fragility of the plate. Shatter even works in conversation, though not in many as most conversations have unlimited possibilities. Were he to come across a conversation with one or two or three possible outcomes, it works then: he acquires knowledge of how to act, speak, and move to make the conversation go one of the few specified routes. Likewise with events, too many possibilities and it doesn't work. But with restricted possibilities, he knows exactly what to do for each result. Scary stuff. Rarely useful, to be honest, rare are the events or conversations with only a few outcomes. He could wreck materials though. He can fuck them up, he barely even has to try.

But now… he gets the little beads of light that tell him that this moment has only a few fracture lines. Huh… you'd figure that, in a meeting of heroes and 'civilians', there'd be a shit ton of possibilities. But, apparently, this one has three. Fight and lose, fight and escape (which is moderately confusing considering how the fastest guy ever is right there), or hide in plain sight. That's boring! He doesn't even need his powers to know the options, stupid little… pop-up in real life! Ad-block! That's what he needs; ad-block for his _brain_! Oh well. It's not like the little ads tell him exactly what will happen. He can't see the future. However, he… has significantly accurate knowledge of the incredibly near future…? Meh, not as useful an aspect as shattering objects can be. Not nearly as fun either; makes life seem like an RPG.

Naturally, he wants the hide in plain sight option, so Eric takes stock of the situation. As a masterful infiltrator of Communist regimes, and prisons, he knows that what people think of others are often influenced by appearance. What he's wearing, what he's holding, where he's going to, all give the impression of slacker. Sweat pants and T-shirt, barefoot, a plate of nachos and a frilly feminine oven mitt, and he is going to the couch set up in front of a large television. It is readily apparent that, to them, he doesn't put forth the effort to look presentable, he doesn't put forth the effort to eat properly, he doesn't put forth the effort to find a non-feminine oven mitt, and he doesn't put forth the effort to find a hobby, instead spending his time watching glorious mind-numbing television. The impression that they should be getting about him is lazy, slacker, bum, etc, etc.

Enforce the stereotype. Become the stereotype. Be ignored by the watchers.

Eyes become half-lidded, posture slumps, caring becomes minimal.

He holds out the plate and mumbles, "Want some nachos?"

There we go. Now it's sealed in their tiny, insignificant little minds that he is a non-issue. Unconsciously, of course, he's a non-issue. It'll take something incredibly unexpected or, God forbid, them actually taking the time to think critically about the situation for them to unseal the first impression of 'bum' from their minds.

Flash looks distinctly interested in the offer, but is too self-conscious about Batman's presence to do anything about the matter. That is, of course, until he considers the ramifications of either choice. Retain what little remains of Batman's respect for him or, on the other hand, receive a nacho. To him, the choice is painfully clear. Hawkman, poor unlucky bastard that he is, appears to entertain the novelty of the nacho, but a sharp tug from Hawkwoman has him reeling for the integrity of his testicles. As though they matter; they're already in a jar on Hawkwoman's night stand. Whipped. Batman has this completely terrifying 'NO' face, that makes it quite clear that _Batman Does Not Eat Nachos_. And then Robin glances at his, oh, whatchamacallit, master, maybe? Anyways, he glances at Batman, smirks and strides over to take _more than_ one of the nachos. Little bastard, the implied message was one nacho! At least Throthdar has the class to politely refuse the offer.

So in the end, the only adult one of them to accept the offer is Flash, and Eric only notices because the hero suddenly has a nacho in his hand when there previously wasn't one. Abusing his powers for nachos? How… utterly heroic. Sure, they don't use their powers for crime, but for something like a nacho taken from a plate no more than a half dozen yards across the room? How heroic is that?

Considering that the subject is nachos, the heroic meter is ranging close to 'saving the world at the sacrifice of one's own life'.

Seeing that no one seems to be interested in the offer of food, the fools, Eric decides to complete his mighty journey to the couch, where an adorable little Rachel is clearly raging at his very existence. With the way she immediately reaches for a nacho before he even sits down, it's probably because he allowed himself to be slowed on the return. Or maybe that he had dared to offer one to anyone other than her. God, she's adorable. And she even turned the TV back on and switched to a more appropriate channel, she's learning! He's so proud…

…

Wait…

Why is he thinking about this? He doesn't even know the girl!

Wait…

She's fourteen… that means she's going to be interested in _boys_… and soon!

_Disgusting_.

Unless she's a lesbian, in which case it's his duty to be equally defensive of her… except this time it will be against other girls. In this manner he unfortunately pleases the feminists, as he is treating both male and female suitors equally horribly. Or… do they hate him for not giving Rachel the choice…? Oh well, can't please everyone.

Isn't there an interesting tea party going on or something? One that Rachel had previously expressed an interest in? He nudges the girl and indicates her towards the rather quiet and well-mannered conversation behind them. She shakes her head 'no', pointing towards the nachos… which he just now realizes are significantly depleted. Little shit, eating all of his snack! Swiftly, he begins to consume them at a great pace. His sudden increase in intake shocks Rachel, but only for a moment. She immediately tries to matches his consumption; however, lacking experience and stomach size, she falls behind. He manages, only just, to eat the greater portion of the nachos, leaving Rachel dejected. It had been his snack from the start. Honestly, infringing on a man's right to the snack he so carefully cultivated for himself. The audacity! Yet, he has shown her the error of her ways. Truly he is master of all cheesy confections.

And, with the sudden lack of nachos, he's lost the moderately unwanted attentions of the little Rachel girl. She wanders off to join the party… or, hell, he doesn't watch her: she might have wandered off to go summon Satan in one of the spare rooms. Satan'd be pretty pissed about being taken from his bar over in San Francisco, but, hey, no skin off his back… unless it would be. Uh oh. Better check. He _leans_ back in the couch to find that, yes; the little girl has joined the little gathering of strange people over in the lounge that Throthdar built out of the furniture. There she is; chilling on a cushioned chair while holding both a little plate and the tea cup. Chatting with the one kid… Batman's, what the hell is he called? Robe-man? No, no, no; it'd be Robe-boy, if anything… Eric swears it has something to do with robbery. Robber? Robbie? Robbisteis; the conjugated form of the 'Rob' verb in the vosotros form in the preterite tense? Nah… 'to rob' in Spanish is robar, it wouldn't be '-isteis' en el preterito, it would be '-asteis' ROBIN! That's it.

Robin is the little shit's name, talking to Rachel like they know each other. Bastard. Why, if Eric had half a mind… he'd kidnap the little bastard, lord it over Batman's head like an emotional wrecking ball, and then beat the kid around with a crowbar before leaving him in, oh let's say a warehouse, to die of sudden explosion because of the large bomb he leaves behind to hopefully also take out Batman. But, of course, this theoretical future would only possibly happen if that little shit stain chooses, wrongly, to associate himself with Rachel in a negative manner.

Why is he being so defensive? Meh, probably some deeply buried instinct from a long time in the past. Or some horrible biological thing that no one can ever really explain. Best to just ignore it if possible. And, hey; it gives him a flimsy excuse to dream about murdering the heroes he so mildly dislikes! That right there is what we call a pro. Sure, the con is having an unwanted protective instinct over a girl he barely knows, but you've got to take the good with the bad. Like how you have to accept the eventuality of crippling governmental deadlock due to living in a fucking awesome super democracy.

And that's how the party goes. Eric, contrary to Throthdar's hopes and dreams, never really participates. Sure, Eric said that he might try and participate, but who hasn't said one thing and done the other in their lives? Besides; they both have a nice time. Eric has his TV and Throthdar has, ugh, _friends_. Hell, they're not even friends. They're just visitors. He tried! He really did! He made nachos _and_ offered it to them, not his fault they didn't take advantage of the opportunity. Eric will just never understand social people. Give him the comfort and safety of his apartment or home or what have you, but leave him the hell alone when he's there. Please. It's a request, but he's got bones! Bones everywhere!

Once or twice, he even chose to give his two cents on whatever they happened to be discussing at the time. That's participation! That's attempted participation! He even stops the one kid, Robar, from going about all sneakily through the apartment! That's at least worth 7 points on the scale! Batman probably encouraged it, but at least has the decency to get mad at his pupil when the dumbass gets caught.

Not enough decency to stay behind and help clean up. None of them do, not even that one guy Flash. He could have done the work in ten seconds flat, but he chose to be an asshole and leave them to it. And by them, Eric means Throthdar. Rachel is absorbed in 'Pretty Pretty Pegasus' and Eric is going through the arduous task of actually setting up his desktop for the first time. Sure, it isn't that arduous, and he's mostly just playing the first game that he installed, but there is excellence in simplicity.

So Eric plays his game, Raven watches her show, and Throthdar cleans the flat. Throthdar, though outwardly complaining as far as his sensibilities would allow him to, which isn't that much, actually does enjoy the simple tasks of household management. Not so much the awful tasks, like bathroom cleaning, but he does find the quiet and peace of, let's say, washing the dishes soothing. Having not found a better place for it, Eric's desktop is in the living room. The kitchen isn't separated by brick and mortar, and the TV area rests in a comfortable alcove in between. The three find enjoyment and some moderate sense of fulfillment in their individual activities. For Eric, it is the rush of beating others at a game that he finds pleasurable. For Raven, she enjoys the little horses creatures frolicking in their dangerous homeland beset by monsters. And Throthdar has always enjoyed being clean, ever since he first crawled out of the muck that is the unwashed detritus of ancient society. The bastard heroes can't take away these things they enjoy… Well, actually… they could destroy the TV , the apartment, and the desktop with one fell swoop, if they are so inclined.

But peace reigned in the household, for the moment.

Eventually, Throthdar retires for the evening, Eric finishes his game (several, actually), and, well by the Good Lord, little Raven has fallen asleep on her couch. How cute. Mere mortal words cannot adequately describe the cuteness of the situation. We might have to switch to the Ancient Language of Creation just to fully describe it:

01001000 01001111 01001100 01011001 00100000 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01010011 01001000 01001001 01010100 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000001 01010100 00100111 01010011 00100000 01010011 01001111 00100000 01000110 01010101 01000011 01001011 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01000011 01010101 01010100 01000101 00100000 01001010 01000101 01010011 01010101 01010011 00100000 01000011 01001000 01010010 01001001 01010011 01010100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01000011 01000001 01001110 00100111 01010100 00100000 01000101 01010110 01000101 01001110 00100000 01001111 01001000 00100000 01001101 01011001 00100000 01000111 01001111 01000100

Eric, seeing only a few alternatives and none of them resulting in a superior outcome, decides to do something nice for the little girl. He picks her up, and takes her still, sleeping form to the guest bedroom that he had been sleeping in. Huge apartment, one guest room, what the hell? And the master bedroom, but that doesn't count. He's sacrificing a whole night in an admittedly kickass bed for this girl.

Why? He'd been avoiding the question all day… Meh, might as well keep ignoring it. No reason not to. No reason to acknowledge the emotion. He's a man. If he doesn't want emotions, then he doesn't have to have emotions.

Now, to search the apartment for bugs. Knowing Batman, he probably has a few dozen. He's going to be up all night. Well, at least he won't have to sleep on the couch like some whipped newlywed.

**(A/N – OnlineImhotep. Yea, for we have completed this great work. Tremble, all ye nations. But despair not, for it is good. The power of America hath decreed it. Etc, etc. We're done! With this chapter at least. The unholy tag team power of OnlineImhotep, the only Pharaoh with a stable internet connection, and Claytonimor, the other guy, continues unabated! UNBOWED, UNBENT, UNBROKEN. Despite the lack of… attention. *Sobs*. Also; figured that Eric was being overshadowed by Thrthodar's rampant Sue-ness, so I made him slightly more Sue. Slightly. Very, very slightly.)**

**(A/N – Claytonimor. Greetings and salutations, we're back, with a post on All Hallow's Eve, but being scary is boring, so we're keeping with the style. If you guys liked it, please R&R or we'll eventually grow depressed and kill ourselves in the tub, releasing our troubled souls to continuously haunt you for the rest of your lives. If only you had reviewed this would have never happened, but hey, at least you didn't have to type like 30 words, that was a whole minute out of your day you get to keep now! Now, my partner...my heterosexual life mate is starting to get mad at long I'm making this, so I'll wrap it up here. I hope you guys liked that chapter and will continue to tune into "Villainy and Camaraderie".)**

**The Memorial of the Unknown Anon in Memorandum**

**Alas, poor Anon, ye who none knew;**

**And yet, Anon inspired us with passion anew.**

**He (or she) brings joy to us, the lonely;**

**For you know our struggle, as an Anon does, only.**

**A magnificent review, an extolment in text;**

**You, Anon, have acclaimed us as best.**

**So now we seek, with fervor untold;**

**To continue our works, and bring you into fold.**

**No matter your troubles in life, know that you helped poor writers two;**

**And for that we too, bring glory unto you.**

**So now, if you would please, hear our request;**

**Make an account, Anon, that we may laud you as best.**

_**Fin**_


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